PR6023 
. U24 C5 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 



DDDD31bSE31 







.V 









• ^^' 



















■, > 










^ ♦♦•*'> 









" ^oV^ 



^^•nK 



? . 







\ ^MrS 



■^0^ 

<^'='^ 



% 




CHARACTER AND COMEDY 



CHARACTER AND 
COMEDY 



BY 

E. V. LUCAS 



NEW YORK 

THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 

1907 






///<^L^ 



A// Ktgkis Reserved 



5 



PREFATORY NOTE 

'"I'*HE Essays that make up this volume have 
been collected by permission from various 
periodicals. " My Cousin the Bookbinder " ap- 
peared in the Cornliill Magazine : the others in 
the Outlook, T. P.'s Weekly, the County Gentlemany 
and the Acadcnuj. In almost every case I have 
altered and expanded the text^ I hope for the 
better. The second half of the book consists of 
a selection from an epistolaiy series that ran 
through Punch, which the proprietors kindly 
allow me to reprint here. 

E. V. L. 



s*' 



CONTENTS 



"My Cousin the Bookbinder" . . .1 

A Funeral . . . . . -14 

Meditations among the Cages . . .20 

Two Irishmen . . . . -29 

From Persia to Aberdeen . . -45 

The Search and the Gift . . • 57 

A Philosopher that Failed . . -63 

A Sketch Book . . . . -70 

The Beating of the Hoofs . . -84 

Our Gardeners and Luck of the Woods . 98 

Conjurer and Confederate . . . 108 

Sister Lucie Vinken . . .116 
Life's Little Difficulties — 

L The Wedding Present . . .125 

IL Jane's Eighth or Ninth . . 133 

IIL The Chauffeur . . . .141 

IV. The Dedication .... 149 



Life's Littlk Difficulties {conh'jmed) — 

V. The Appointment 

VI. The Testimonial 

VII. The Box .... 

VIII. The Doctor's Visit 

IX. The Loin of Pork . 

X. The Shade of Blue 

XI. The Smithsons, the Parkinsons, and 
Col, Home-Hopkins 

XII. "White Pinings " . 

XIII. The Christmas Decorations 

XIV. The Prize Competition 
XV. The Cricket Club Concert 



157 
.64 
172 

'79 
187 
197 

202 
210 
218 
226 

233 



CHARACTER & COMEDY 



"My Cousin the Bookbinder" -c^ ^o 

"Oh, I am so poorly ! I waked it at my cousin's, the 
bookbinder, who is now with God." — Charles Lamb to 
P. G. Patmore, 1827 

" Q^O you've been reading that, sir, have you? 

^-^ I have a copy too. I'll fetch it and show 
you. . . . The inscription } Oh yes, that's all 
right. He's my cousin, true enough : his real 
name's not Elia, of course ; his real name's Lamb 
— Charles Lamb. He's a clerk at the East India 
Company's in Leadenhall Street — a little dark 
man with a large head. Must be nearly fifty by 
this time. 

" ' Genius,' you say ? Well, I've heaixl others say 
that too — one or two persons, that is : customers of 
mine ; but I don't know. Perhaps I'm no judge 
of such things. I'm a bookbinder. The outside 
of books is my line, not the inside. Oh yes, I've 
read Elia's Essays— not all through, jierhaps, but 
here and there. Quite enough to tell, anyway. 

A I 



" He must have his Joke " 

" ' Genius/ you say ? My idea of genius is not 
that. I like a straightforward thing. Did you 
ever read the Elegi) in a Country Cluirchijard , 
by Thomas Gray ? Now, there's genius. So 
beautifully it goes — never a trip in the tongue 
from beginning to end, and everything so clear a 
child could understand it, and yet it's literature 
too. My little girl used to say it. Rassclas, 
too — do you knoAv that ? The Happy Valley and 
all the rest of it. That's genius, I think. But 
not this twisted stuff going backwards and 
forwards and one never feeling quite sure how 
to take it. I like a plain man with a plain 
mind. 

"It's just the same with my cousin when you 
meet him. You never know what he's at. He's 
so nice sometimes, all heart, and friendly — and 
then the next time I have a notion that every- 
thing he says means something else. He leads me 
on to talk — ^just as I am talking now to you, sir, — 
and he seems to agree with what I say so warmly ; 
and then all of a sudden I see that he's just 
making fun of me all the time. He must have 
his joke. He comes in here sometimes on his 
way from the office, and precious little he does 
there, I can tell you. Oh, they're an easy lot, 
those East India clerks. 

" But with all his odd ways and that mischiev- 

2 



"That Mischievous Mouth of His" 

ous mouth of his, his heart's in the right place. 
Very different from his brother, who died a year 
or so back. He was nothing to boast of; but the 
airs that man used to put on ! I remember his 
father well — a little brisk man, wonderfully like 
Garrick, full of jokes and bright, quick ways. He 
was really a scrivener, but he didn't do much of 
that in those days, having fallen into an easy place 
with old Mr. Salt, the Member of Parliament, and 
a great man in the law. This Mr. Salt lived in 
the Temple, and little John Lamb — that is your 
Elia's father — he was his servant : did everything 
for him and lived in clover ; Mrs. Lamb, she 
cooked. Mr. Salt was the generous kind — sent 
the boys to school and all the i"est of it. They 
had it all their own way till the old gentleman 
died, and then things went wrong one after the 
other. It's too sad to talk about. . . . 

" Except that Mrs. Lamb and her husband's 
sister. Miss Sarah — 'Aunt Hetty' they used to 
call her — never quite hit it off, it was as happy a 
family as you'd ask for. But there came terrible 
times. . . . It's too sad. Where was I ? — Oh yes, 
so you see that Mr. John Lamb, Esquire, who died 
the other day, had little enough to boast of, but 
he walked about as if he owned the earth. He 
used to come in here now and then to give me an 
order, and he threw it to me as if it was a bone 
3 



" A Wonderful Wise Woman " 

and I was a dog. Many's the time I had it on 
my tongue to I'emind him what his father was, 
but I kept it back. A word unsaid is still to say. 
He was at the South Sea House, near his brother 
in Leadenhall Street, but they didn't have much 
to say to each other. Mr. John, he was a big, 
blustering, happy man, while this little one 
who calls himself Elia is all for quietness and 
not being seen, and having his own thoughts 
and his own jokes. They hadn't much in 
common. . , . 

" Besides, there was another thing. There's a 
sister, you must know, sir, a wonderful wise 
woman, but she's not always quite right in her 
head, poor dear ; and when it was a question of 
whether someone had to promise to be responsible 
for her, or she must go to an asylum for the rest 
of her life, her younger brother, the writer of 
that book there, under your arm, said he would ; 
and he gave up everything, and has kept her — it 
was thirty years ago very nearly — ever since. 
Well, it was thought in the family and by their 
friends that John, who was a grown man at the 
time and a bachelor, and beginning to be pi'os- 
perous, ought to have done more than he did, and I 
think that sometimes he thought so too, although 
he was usually pretty well satisfied with himself. 
Anyway, he didn't go to see his brother and sister 
4 



" No Jokes about Her " 

much, and when he did I've heard that there was 
often trouble, because he would have his own way 
and argufy until he lost his temper. I was told 
as how he once had a dispute with Mr. Hazlitt 
the writer over something to do with painting, and 
knocked him down. Just think of knocking a 
man down about a matter of paint ! But there's 
some high-handed men that would quarrel over 
anything. 

*• Like his little brother, he tried writing too, 
but he couldn't do it. He wrote a little ti'act on 
kindness to animals, and brought it here to be 
bound in morocco. Not to give away, mind, but 
to keep. ' Author's Copy ' I had to letter it. . . . 
^ Kindness to animals,' I nearly said to him ; 
' what about kindness to sisters } ' But I didn't 
say it. 

"^ The sister ? Ah yes, she's the pick. She's a 
great woman, if ever there was one. I know her 
better than any of them, because when they were 
living near here, and her brother — your Mr. 
Lamb, the author — was at his office, I often 
looked in with a pork chop or some little thing 
like that. There's no jokes about her, no saying 
things that she doesn't mean, or anything like 
that. She's all gold, my cousin Mary is. She 
understands everything, too. I've taken lots of 
troubles to her — little difficulties about my 
5 



" She's the Clever One " 

children, and what not — and she understands 
directly, for all she's an old maid, and tells me 
just what I want to know. She's the clever one. 
She can write, too. I've got a little book of her 
stories and some poetry for children — here they 
are — I bound them myself: that's the best bind- 
ing I can do — real russia, and hand tooling, every 
bit of it. Did she write all of them ? No, she 
didn't write all, but she wrote the best. Her 
brother Charles did something to each, but I 
don't mind that. I think of them as her books — 
Mary's. If only she had better health, she Avould 
write much better than he does ; but her poor 
head. . . . Every year, you must know, she goes 
out of her mind for a little while. Oh, it's too 
sad. . . . 

" Have they many friends ? Oh yes, a good 
many. Most of them are too clever for me ; but 
there are some old-fashioned ones too, that they 
like for old sakes' sake. They're the best. One 
or two of them are very good customers of mine. 
There's Mr. Robinson, the barrister, he brings 
me lots of books to mend, and I've had work for 
Mr. Aders, too. But as for your Mr. Lamb, — 
Elia, — never a stitch will he let you put into any 
book, even if it's dropping to pieces. Why, he 
won't even take the dealer's tickets off them. 
He never thinks of the outside of a book, but 
6 



"Life's full of Surprises" 

you should see him tearing the heart out of them 
by the light of one candle. I'm told he knows 
more about what books are worth reading than 
anyone living. That's odd, isn't it, and his father 
a little serving-man ! Life's full of surprises. 
They say he knows all about poetry, too, and 
helped the great poets. There's Mr. WordsAvorth, 
why, he dedicated a book to my cousin, — I've got 
it here, The Waggoner, a pretty book it is, too, — 
and Mr. Coleridge, who wrote about the old sailor 
man and the albatross, he let my cousin put some 
little poems of his own into one of his books. It 
turns one inside out when one thinks of this, and 
then of the old days and his father powdering Mr. 
Salt's wig. But I suppose everyone's father had 
to work once. Still, it's funnier when one belongs 
to the same family. 

" Now I come to remember it, his father used 
to write a little too — free and easy pieces for a 
charitable society he belonged to, and so on. It's 
odd how writing runs in a family. But there 
won't be any more Lambs to Avrite — John left no 
children, only a stepdaughter, and Charles and 
Mary are single. This is the end. Well . . . 

" Yes, they've moved from London now. 

They're living in Islington. They used to live 

in the Temple, for years, and then they went to 

Covent Garden, over a tinman's. Miss Lamb 

7 



"Hissing his own Play" 

liked that better than the Temple, but her brother 
Hked the Temple best. It gave her more to do, 
poor dear, during the day, because her sitting- 
room window looked over Bow Street, and she 
could see all that was going on. I'm afraid 
Islington is very dull after that. She could see 
the two great theatres, too, and they both love the 
play. 

" He wrote a farce once. I went to see it. 
Nearly twenty years ago, at the Lane, when 
Elliston had it. We had orders for the pit, my 
wife and I, and the house was full of clerks from 
the South Sea House and the East India House. 
But it wouldn't do. M?: H. it was called, and 
the whole joke was about the man's full name. 
But it wouldn't do. No one really minds names, 
and his wasn't so monstrously bad — only Hogsflesh 
when all was said and done. All his friends did 
what we could for it, and the gentlemen from 
the great offices cheered and clapped, but the 
Noes got it. I never heard such hissing. I 
climbed up on the seat to see how poor Miss 
Lamb and her brother were taking it, — they were 
right in front, just by the orchestra, — and there 
was he, hissing away louder than anyone. Think 
of it, hissing his own play I It's one of the best 
jokes I ever heard. But she, poor dear, she was 
just crying. 

8 



" Mr. Dyer, the Writer " 

"No, he never tried the stage again, not to 
my knowledge. But I always say it wasn't a bad 
little play. If he'd only have let his sister touch it 
up, it would have been all right. She would have 
told him that Hogsflesh wasn't a good enough joke. 
She knows. . . . 

" I went up to Islington to see them only last 
week, but he was out. A nice little cottage, but 
very quiet for her. Nothing to see but the 
houses over the way, and the New Rivei", and 
the boys fishing for sticklebacks all day long. The 
river's absolutely in front of the house : nothing 
between you and it. Have you ever heard of Mr. 
Dyer, the writer ? An old man, nearly blind. Well, 
he was coming away from my cousin's one day 
last year, and he walked bang into the water 
before anyone could stop him. Plump in. It's 
a wonder he wasn't drowned. There was an 
account of it in the London Magazine for 
December ; for my cousin's a terrible man to 
serve up his friends and have jokes against them. 
He writes about everything just as it happens. 
I'm always expecting he'll have me in one of his 
essays. In fact, to tell you a seci'et, sir, that's 
why I read them. But I don't think he's got me 
yet. 

" Yes, Islington's very different from Covent 
Garden, and the Temple too ; for though the 
9 



"She has her Thoughts" 

Temple is quiet enough^ you've only got to pop 
into Fleet Street to be in the thick of evei-ything. 
When they lived there she used to like doing her 
shopping in Fetter Lane, because it was at the 
top of the lane that she used to go to school 
years and years ago. For she's getting to be 
an old woman, you know. Let me see, how old 
is she ? — Why, let's see, when was Mary born ? 
It must have been 1763; no, it was 1764. Why, 
she'll be sixty this year. 

"What does she do all day .^ Well, she reads 
a great deal, stones for the most part. And she 
sews. She's very good with her needle. And 
then she has her thoughts. And at night they 
play cards. He gets back pretty soon, you know. 
Those East India gentlemen they don't do too 
much, I can tell you, and I'm told he's one of 
the laziest. Always either talking or writing 
letters, I heai*. There's a good story of him 
down there. One of the superiors met him 
coming in at about half-past ten, and he said to 
him, sharp-like, ' Mr. Lamb,' he said, ' you come 
very late.' And what do you think my cousin 
said, the impudent little fellow ? ' Yes,' he said, 
as cool as you like, ' yes,' he said, ' but see how 
early I go,' he said. I can't say it as he did, 
because he stammers and stutters and I'm no 
mimic : but the brass of it shut the gentleman 



" That's like Good Women " 

up. My cousin told me himself. He likes to 
tell you his good things ; but I can't understand 
a lot of them. Everyone has a different idea of 
what's funny. I'm with him^ though^ about old 
Munden : I could laugh at him all night. 

" I'm ti'oubled about them up there, so far 
from London and the theatres and the noise. 
It's a mistake to give up so much all at once. 
And they've given up their regular evenings, too, 
when people came in to play cards and talk. 
You can't ask busy folk to go to Islington. 

" My cousin told me some bad news last week. 
She says that your Mr. Lamb, — Elia, — although he 
has such an easy time and a large salary, wants 
to leave the East India House and do nothing. I 
hope they won't let him. I know enough of life 
and of him to see what a mistake it would be. 
It was a mistake to go to Islington : it will be a 
worse mistake to retire. He says he wants to 
live in the country ; but he doesn't i*eally. 
Authors don't know what they want, I always 
say that every author ought to have a book- 
binder to advise him. 

*' She knows it's all wrong, poor dear, but what 
can she do ? He wori'ies so. She sees him all 
miserable, and after she's said all she can against 
his plans, she agrees with them. That's like good 
women. When they see that what must be must 
II 



" Not quite a Genius " 

be, they do their best. But it is very sad. . . . 
It's her I'm so sorry for. He's the kind of man 
that ought to go to business every day. 

" Well, sir, good-night to you. I hope I haven't 
been tedious with all my talk. 

"No, sir, not quite a genius ; but very clever, I 
grant you." 



P.S. — Of Lamb's cousin, the bookbinder (now 
Avith God), to whom there are two or three 
references in the Letters, nothing is really known, 
save that he died in 1 827, and Lamb " waked it " at 
his funeral to some purpose. He may have been 
(and it is my theory that he was) only a distant 
cousin. But if he were a first cousin, he was probably 
the son of that aunt of whom we have no information 
save that she gave the little Charles Lamb the cake 
which he gave to a beggar. It is known that John 
Lamb had two sisters — Aunt Hetty, who was un- 
married and lived with the Lambs for twenty years, 
and one other. This may have been the book- 
binder's mother. I assume this aunt to be distinct 
from Aunt Hetty, because Lamb says that she gave 
him the cake on a holiday, and he returned to school 
by way of London Bridge. This would locate her 

12 



Elia was just Published 

in Southwarkj where the Lamb family never lived ; 
but of course Aunt Hetty may have sojourned in 
Southwark for a little, and her nephew may have 
visited her there. I feel certain that when he 
made London Bridge the scene of the adventure 
with the beggar, he nieant it : it was not over such 
reminiscences that he mystified his readers. On 
the other hand, the bookbinder — if we are to 
entertain the first-cousin theory — may have been 
a son of a brother or sister of Lamb's mother ; but 
nothing is ever said of any such relations of hers. 
Most probably, I think, the bookbinder was not a 
first cousin, and belonged to an older generation. 
In 1827 Lamb was fifty-two; probably the book- 
binder was seventy. I have chosen early 1824 as 
the time of this conversation, because Elia was 
just published. 



13 



A Funeral <:^ ^^ -o ^r^ ^:> 

TT was in a Surrey churchyard on a grey, damp 
afternoon — all very solitary and quiet, with 
no alieji spectators and only a very few mourners ; 
and no desolating sense of loss, although a very 
true and kindly friend was passing from us. A 
football match was in progress in a field adjoining 
the churchyard, and I wondered, as 1 stood by 
the grave, if, were I the schoolmaster, I would 
stop the game just for the few minutes during 
which a body was committed to the earth ; and I 
decided that I would not. In the midst of death 
we are in life, just as in the midst of life we are 
in death ; it is all as it should be in this bizarre, 
jostling world. And he whom we had come to 
bury would have been the first to wish the boys 
to go on with their sport. 

He was an old scholar — not so very old, either 
— whom I had known for some five years, and had 
many a long walk with : a short and sturdy Irish 
14 



A Honeyed Memory 

gentleman, with a large, genial grey head stored 
with odd lore and the best literature ; and the 
heart of a child. I never knew a man of so tran- 
sparent a character. He showed you all his 
thoughts : as someone once said, his brain was 
like a beehive under glass — you could watch all 
its workings. And the honey in it ! To walk 
with him at any season of the year was to be 
reminded or newly told of the best that the 
English poets have said on all the phenomena of 
wood and hedgerow, meadow and sky. He had 
the more lyrical passages of Shakespeare at his 
tongue's end, and all Wordswoi-th and Keats. 
These were his favourites ; but he had read every- 
thing that has the true rapturous note, and 
had forgotten none of its spirit. 

His life was divided between his books, his 
friends, and long walks. A solitary man, he 
worked at all hours without much method, and 
probably courted his fatal illness in this way. To 
his own name there is not much to show ; but 
such Avas his liberality that he Avas continually 
helping others, and the fruits of his erudition are 
widely scattered, and have gone to increase many 
a compai'ative stranger's reputation. His own 
magnum opus he left unfinished ; he had worked 
at it for years, until to his friends it had come to 
be something of a joke. But though still shapeless, 
15 



Sturdy Quixotism 

it was a great feat, as the world, I hope, will one 
day know. If, however, this treasure does not 
reach the world, it will not be because its worth 
was insufficient, but because no one can be 
found to decipher the manuscript ; for I may say 
incidentally that our old friend wrote the worst 
hand in London, and it was not an uncommon ex- 
perience of his correspondents to carry his missives 
from one pair of eyes to another, seeking a clue ; 
and I remember on one occasion two such in- 
quirers meeting unexpectedly, and each simul- 
taneously drawing a letter from his pocket and 
uttering therequest that the other should putevery- 
thing else on one side in order to solve the enigma. 
Lack of method and a haphazard and unlimited 
generosity were not his only Irish qualities. He 
had a quick, chivalrous temper, too, and I 
remember the difficulty I once had in restraining 
him from leaping the counter of a small tobacco- 
nist's in Great Portland Street, to give the man a 
good dressing for an imagined rudeness — not to 
himself, but to me. And there is more than 
one 'bus conductor in London who has cause 
to remember this sturdy Quixotic passenger's 
championship of a poor woman to whom insufficient 
courtesy seemed to him to have been shown. 
Normally kindly and tolerant, his indignation on 
hearing of injustice was red hot. He burned at 
i6 



Convivial Alchemists 

a story of meanness. It would haunt him all the 
evening. " Can ut really be true ? " he would ask, 
and burst forth again into flame. 

Abstemious himself in all things, save reading 
and writing and helping his friends and corre- 
spondents, he mixed excellent whisky punch, as 
he called it. He brought to this office all the 
concentration which he lacked in his literary 
labours. It was a ritual with him ; nothing 
might be hurried or left undone, and the result, 
I might say, justified the means. His death 
reduces the number of such convivial alchemists 
to one only, and he is in Tasmania, and, so far as 
I am concerned, useless. 

His avidity as a reader — his desire to master 
his subject — led to some charming eccentricities, 
as when, for a daily journey between Earl's Court 
Road and Addison Road stations, he would carry 
a heavy hand-bag filled with books, " to read in 
the train." This was no satire on the railway 
system, but pure zeal. He had indeed no satire 
in him ; he spoke his mind and it was over. 

It was a curious little company that assembled 
to do honour to this old kindly bachelor — the two- 
or three relatives that he possessed, and eight of 
his literary friends, most of them of a good age, 
and for the most part men of intellect, and in one 
or two cases of world-wide reputation, and all a 

B 17 



Graveside Regrets 

little uncomfortable in unwonted formal black. 
We were veiy grave and thoughtful, but it was 
not exactly a sad funeral, for Ave knew that had 
he lived longer — he was sixty-three — he would 
certainly have been an invalid, which would have 
irked his active, restless mind and body almost 
unbearably ; and we knew, also, that he had died 
in his first real illness after a very happy life. 
Since we knew this, and also that he was a 
bachelor and almost alone, those of us who were 
not his kin were not melted and unstrung by that 
poignant sense of untimely loss and irreparable 
removal that makes some funerals so tragic ; but 
death, however it come, is a mystery before 
which one cannot stand unmoved and unregret- 
ful ; and I, for one, as I stood there, remembered 
how easy it would have been oftener to have 
ascended to his eyrie and lured him out into 
Hertfordshire or his beloved Epping, or even 
have dragged him away to dinner and whisky 
punch ; and I found myself meditating, too, as 
the profoundly impressive service rolled on, how 
melancholy it was that all that storied brain, with 
its thousands of exquisite phrases and its perhaps 
unrivalled knowledge of Shakespearean philology, 
should have ceased to be. For such a cessation, 
at any rate, say what one will of immortality, is 
part of the sting of death, part of the victory of 
i8 



God smiles at Skull-caps 

the grave, which St. Paul denied with such 
magnificent irony. 

And then we filed out into the churchyard, which 
is a new and very large one, although the church 
is old, and at a snail's pace, led by the clergyman, 
we crept along, a little black company, for, I 
suppose, nearly a quarter of a mile, under the 
cold grey sky. As I said, many of us were old, 
and most of us were indoor men, and I was 
amused to see how close to the head some of 
us held our hats — the merest barleycorn of 
interval being maintained for reverence' sake ; 
whereas the sexton and the clergyman had slipped 
on those black velvet skull-caps which God, in 
His infinite mercy, either completely overlooks, 
or seeing, smiles at. And there our old friend 
was committed to the earth, amid the contending 
shouts of the football players, and then we all 
clapped our hats on our heads with firmness (as 
he would have wished us to do long before), and 
returned to the town to drink tea in an ancient 
hostelry, and exchange memories, quaint, and 
humorous, and touching, and beautiful, of the 
dead. 



19 



Meditations among the Cages ^ ^> 

T^ RIFTING somewhat aimlessly about the Zoo 
■^^^ on Sunday afternoon^ I came suddenly upon 
the hippopotamus's vast and homely countenance 
peering round the corner of its stockade. It is 
the hugestj most incredible thing — ^just for an 
instant a little like the late Herbert Campbell 
carriect* out to the highest power — and I felt for 
the mioment as if I were in another world, a kind 
of impossible pantomime land. There was nothing 
frightening about it ; it was more companionable 
than many faces that sit opposite one in a 'bus ; 
and yet it was repellent, un-negotiable, absurd. 
It is not a thing to see suddenly. 

This hippopotamus, who is now thirty years or 
more old, shows signs of age. Her feet are sore, 
her eyes ai'e scaly, her teeth are few and awry 
and very brown. In bulk she is immense, of a 
I'otund solidity unequalled in my experience. The 
Great Tun, filled with its gallons, would, one 
20 



The Weighty Hippopotamus 

feels, be light compared with her. I could not 
help wondering what will happen when she dies, 
as die she must before very long : how her 
gigantic carcase will be moved, how dealt with, 
how eliminated. I am sure her lifeless form will 
be the heaviest thing in London — heavier than 
any girder, heavier than any gun. One has this 
impression, T suppose, because one knows some- 
thing of the weight of an ordinary body, and 
one's mind multiplies that, whereas a girder or 
a gun conveys no distinct impression. Even the 
baby hipjiopotami, in the next cage, ridiculous 
little pigs of hippos, fresh from their packing-case 
and the voyage from Africa, are probably each 
heavier than four aldermen ; but the old one is fifty 
times heavier than the baby, and might easily, 
such is the consistency of her alarming barrel, be 
full of lead. When her tottering legs at length 
give way and she ffiUs to rise no more, may I not 
be there to see ! 

Standing before this ridiculous mammoth, so 
useless and unwieldy, I failed utterly to under- 
stand the feelings of the big-game hunter who 
could deliberately shoot it. If ever there was 
an animal that should inculcate or encourage the 
maxim " Live and let live," it is the hippo- 
potamus. I cannot understand how a man can 
dare to be responsible for adding so much 

21 



The best Short-slip 

mortality to this already encumbered earth. And 
yet there are members of West End clubs sipping 
their coffee at this moment who have probably 
shot many. To kill a lion or tiger, or any of 
the active, dangei'ous beasts : I can understand 
that, although I wish never to do it ; but to 
interrupt the already stagnant life of one of 
these gentle mountains — that I could never bring 
myself to do. How can one kill a creature that 
wallows ? 

Falling in later with a zoological Fellow, with 
a head full of Greek and a pocket full of apples 
and onions, without which he never visits these 
friends, I learned many curious facts. Among 
other things, 1 learned that the hornbill, who 
looks a desperately fierce biped, prepared at a 
second's notice to stab one with his iron beak, 
even in the back, is really the kindliest and most 
companionable of birds, ready and eager for any 
amount of petting. He is also, perhaps, the best 
short-slip in the Gardens, for unwieldy as his beak 
looks to be, he can catch anything, throw it how 
you may. Albert Trott has hitherto been my 
ideal, but he reigns in my mind no more. Le roi 
est moH ; vive l' hornbill. 

I cannot get over my surprise about the horn- 
bill, whose favourite food, it ought to be known, 
is grapes. No animal looks much less tractable 

22 



Pel's Owl 

and nursable ; yet as a matter of fact the horn- 
bill is as anxious to be noticed as a spoiled dog, 
and as full of sentimentality. Best of all — even 
more than grapes — he likes to be scratched under 
the chin, and he leans his head farther and farther 
back in the enjoyment of this ecstasy, until his 
bill points into the sky like the spire of a village 
church. 

In close proximity to the hornbills live the boat- 
bill, who is as lovely as a Japanese print, and 
Pel's Owl, who has perhaps the richest eyes in 
the whole Zoo, and not the least melancholy life ; 
for he, accustomed to fly lightly and noiselessly 
over the surface of African rivers, catching un- 
wary fish in his claws as he flies, is now confined 
to a cage within a cage, a few feet square. What 
must be his thoughts as he watches the sight- 
seers go by ! What must be the thoughts of all 
these caged aliens ! The seals and sea-lions, one 
can believe, are not unhappy ; the otter is in his 
element ; the birds in the large aviaries, the 
monkeys, the snakes — these, one feels, are not 
so badly off. But the beasts and birds of a 
higher spirit, a mounting ambition — the eagles 
and hawks and lions and tigers, and Pel's Owl — 
what a destiny ! What a future ! I would not 
think their thoughts. 

I learned also from my instructive Fellow that 
23 



Eagle and Thar 

one of the llamas can expectorate with more pre- 
cision and less warning than any American de- 
scribed by the old satirists ; that the Bird of 
Paradise, exquisite and beautiful though he is, 
with every right to be disdainful and eremitic, 
will yet cling to the sides of the cage to eat a 
piece of apple from the hand, and, having taken 
it, swallow it whole ; that the most westerly owl 
in the owl house will say "woof-woof" after any- 
one that it esteems ; that eagles like having their 
heads stroked, and that there is one of them who, 
if you give it a lead, will crow like a cock. I 
doubt if such things should be. I like to think 
of the eagle as soaring into the face of the sun 
with an unwinking eye, and allowing no liberties. 
But in Regent's Park. ... I suppose we must 
make allowances. Does not the rhinoceros eat 
biscuits t 

I learned also that the thar loves orange-peel 
above all delicacies, and that the mountain goat 
who possesses the biggest horns can bring them 
down on the railings with a thwack that, if your 
finger chanced to be there, as it easily might, 
would assuredly cut it in two ; but, on the other 
hand, that the slender, graceful deer in the pen 
near the elephants, who has lately lost one horn, 
is as gentle as a spaniel and greatly in need of 
sympathy. 

24 



In Delia's Arbour 

I learned, also, that the baby elephant eats 
Quaker oats ; and that there are keepers in the 
Gardens who have never yet seen the beaver, not 
because they keep looking the opposite way, but 
because that creature is so unaccountably shy. 
The only chance one has of catching a glimpse 
of him is at sunset. 

But the introduction to Delia was the crown 
of the morning — the coping-stone of my good 
fortune in meeting this zoological friend. We 
spent an hour in her company, while she toyed 
with an assorted fruitarian dinner. I should not 
call her a slave to her palate : I never remember 
seeing a non-human animal (is she a non-human 
animal, I wonder ?) so willing to drop a delicacy 
and turn to other things. She turned with chief 
interest to niy walking-stick ; but now and then 
the trapeze caught her restless eye, and she was 
on it ; and now and then it seemed to be time 
to embrace or to be embraced. A very simple, 
loving soul, this Delia (is she a soul, has she a 
soul, I wonder?), with the prettiest little thumb 
imaginable — for an ourang-outang, and, so far 
as I could observe, no arricres pensces. Clean, 
too. In fact, quite one of us. 

Delia is the first ape I ever saw that did not 
make me uneasy. So many monkeys — especially 
the larger apes — are such travesties of ourselves 
25 



The Diving Birds 

- — and not only such travesties^ but now and 
then such reminders of our worse selves — that 
one regards them with an increased scepticism 
as to man's part not only in this life, but in the 
next. But Delia is winsome ; Delia has the 
virtues. She is kind, and gentle, and quiet. All 
her movements are deliberate and Avell thought 
out. She has none of the dreadful furtive sus- 
piciousness of the smaller monkeys ; so far as I 
could see, no pettiness at all. And the hair that 
serves her also for clothes, like Lady Godiva, is 
a very beautiful rich auburn. I cherish her 
memory. 

It was the more pleasant to come under Delia's 
fascination, because I had just seen that horrible 
sight, the feeding of the diving birds. Here, at 
the most, one said in Delia's warm basement- 
room — here, at the most, is only mischief and 
want of thought ; here are no cruel predatory 
jaws pursuing their living prey. The diving 
birds give one, indeed, a new symbol for rapacity 
and relentlessness, partly because the victims, 
which they catch with such accuracy and ferocity, 
are so exquisitely made for joy and life. Can 
there be anything more beautiful than a slender 
diaphanous fish, gliding through the water with 
the light of day inhabiting its fragile body ? The 
movements of a fish are in themselves grace in- 
26 



Eland and Mouse 

carnate. The keeper flings a dozen of these 
little miracles into the tank^ and straightway 
they begin their magical progress through the 
green watei*. He then opens a cage, and a huge 
black and white bird, all cniel eye and snapping 
beak, plunges in, and in two minutes it has 
seized and swallowed every fish. The spectacle 
appeared to be very popular ; but I came away 
sick. 

I walked from Delia's boudoir to the lions, 
and from the lions to the sea-lions, by way of 
the long row of sheds where the nilghais and 
hartebeests and elands dwell, and found that the 
real interest of this house lay, not in those aliens, 
but in a domestic creature which, common 
though it be in English homes, is yet not too 
easy to observe — the mouse. If you want to see 
the mouse at ease, confidently moving hither and 
thither, and taking its meals with a mind secure 
from danger, go to the Zoo, nominally to study 
the eland. It is no injustice to the eland, who 
cares nothing for notice, therein differing com- 
pletely from the male giraffe, who looks after 
his departing friends with a moist and wistful 
eye and a yearning extension of neck that only 
the stony-hearted can resist. The eland is less 
affectionate ; he has no timidity, and he has no 
vanity. He does not mind what you look at, and 
27 



The Pickpocket 

therefore you may lavish all your attention on 
the mice that move about among his legs like 
the shadows of little racing clouds on a windy 
April day. 

And so I came away, having seen everything 
in the Zoo except the most advertised animal of 
all — the pickpocket. To see so many visitors 
to the cages wearing a patronising air, and to 
hear their remarks of condescension or dislike, 
as animal after animal is passed under review, 
has a certain piquancy in the contiguity of this 
ever present notice, "Beware of Pickpockets," 
Avarning man against — what ? — man. Lions, at 
any rate, one feels (desirable as it may be to 
capture their skins for hearthrugs), pick no 
pockets. 



28 



Two Irishmen ^> <:> vi:> xi> ,^ 

'T^HEY are King Bagenal and Edward Edge — 
the autocrat and the gate-keeper. They 
have nothing in common save their race and 
their genuineness ; but a book of essays, like mis- 
fortune, makes strange bedfellows. 

Of King Bagenal I have discovered very little ; 
but it is all splendid. He was a king only by 
the courtesy of the countryside, who knew the 
royal stamp when they saw it ; to the postman he 
was Mr. Bagenal, of Dunleckny, in the county of 
Carlow. But if ever regality coursed through a 
wild Irishman's veins. . . . You could not qualify 
for the throne of a Bagenal merely by swagger 
and bluster : you had to be what you professed to 
be ; you had to be a king right through. And 
there is this to be said of the kings that get their 
title from their neighbours — that they are kings 
in fact, whereas a king in the more ordinary sense, 
who comes to the title by descent, can very easily 
29 



King Bagenal's Pistols 

be no king at all. His throne may be an accident, 
aiad he may never do more than sit nervously on 
the edge of it ; but a King Bagenal leans back 
and lolls. 

He was superb in his lawlessness and authority. 
Only two creatoi-s could have made King Bagenal. 
One is the God of Ireland ; the other is George 
Meredith, who made Harry Richmond's Titanic 
father and the Great Mel. 

This is how Daunt, in his Ireland and her 
Agitators, describes the monarch : " Of high 
Norman lineage, of manners elegant, fascinating, 
polished by extensive intercourse with the great 
world, of princely income and of boundless 
hospitality, Mr. Bagenal possessed all the qualities 
and attributes calculated to procure for him popu- 
larity with every class. A terrestrial paradise 
was Dunleckny for all lovers of good wine, good 
horses and dogs, and good society. ... His 
politics were popular ; he was the mover of the 
grant of ^50,000 to Grattan in 1782. He was 
at that time member for the county Carlow. 

" Enthroned at Dunleckny, he gathered around 
him a host of spirits congenial to his own. He 
had a tender affection for pistols ; a brace of which 
implements, loaded, were often laid before him 
on the dinner-table. After dinner the claret 
was produced in an unbroached cask ; Bagenal's 
3° 



Advice to the Young 

practice [his practice !] was to tap the cask with 
a bullet from one of his pistols, whilst he kept 
the other pistol in terrorem for any of his convives 
who should fail in doing ample justice to the 
wine, 

" Nothing could be more impressive than the 
bland, fatherly, affectionate air with which the 
old gentleman used to impart to his junior guests 
the results of his own experience, and the moral 
lessons which should regulate their conduct 
through life. ' In truth, my young friends, it 
behoves a youth entering the world to make a 
character for himself. Respect will only be 
accorded to character. A young man must show 
his proofs. I am not a quarrelsome person — I 
never was — I hate your mere duellist ; but ex- 
perience of the world tells me that there are 
knotty points of which the only solution is the 
saw-handle. Rest upon your pistols, my boys ! 
Occasions will arise in which the use of them is 
absolutely indispensable to character. A man, I 
repeat, must show his proofs — in this world 
courage Avill never be taken upon trust. I protest 
to Heaven, my dear young friends, that 1 advise 
you exactly as I should advise my own son.' And 
having thus discharged his conscience, he would 
look blandly round upon his guests with the most 
patriarchal air imaginable." 
31 



Heaven's Will is Done 

"His practice/' says Daunt, "accorded with 
his precept. Some pigs, the property of a gentle- 
man who had recently settled near Dunleckny, 
strayed into an enclosure of King Bagenal's, and 
rooted up a flower-knot." The incensed monarch 
paved the way carefully to a challenge. " Nor 
was he disappointed. The challenge was given 
by the owner of the pigs ; Bagenal accepted it 
with alacrity, only stipulating that as he was old 
and feeble, being then in his seventy-ninth year, 
he should fight sitting in his arm-chair ; and that, 
as his infirmities preventing early rising, the 
meeting should take place in the afternoon. 
' Time was,' said the old man with a sigh, ' that I 
would have risen before daybreak to fight at 
sunrise — but we cannot do these things at 
seventy-eight. Well, Heaven's will be done ! ' 

'•'They fought at twelve paces, Bagenal 
wounded his antagonist severely ; the arm of the 
chair in which he sat was shattered, but he 
escaped unhurt ; and he ended the day with a 
glorious carouse, tapping the claret, we may 
presume, as usual, by firing a pistol at the cask." 

There you have King Bagenal. This was 
little more than a hundred years ago. And to- 
day .f" What happens to-day when pigs trespass } 
An exchange of shots ? Never. An exchange 
of lawyers' letters. How could his proud spirit 
32 



As Tennyson nearly said 

have brooked such meanness, such postponements ! 
Yes, it was well that he had to lay aside his 
crown when he did. Life was rapidly becoming 
too much for him. The whole course of events 
was tending to squeeze out old gentlemen with 
impulsive pistols ; to-day there cannot be one left. 
It is impossible to think of anything more incon- 
gruous than King Bagenal in a police-station ; 
but had he lived to our monotonous time he 
would of a certainty be often there, only at last 
to be transferred permanently to a real prison to 
await execution. How could he escape, and yet 
how monsti'ous it would be ! 

King Bagenal died at the right time : before 
duellists became murderers ; before Father 
Mathew set a fashion against carousals ; before 
every editor was a judge and jury. There is no 
longer any premium on eccentricity. People 
are terrified by it, and journalists, taking their 
ideas from their readers, foster the feai*. Dull- 
heads, as Tennyson neai'ly said, are more than 
"characters," and sheep-like faith than Irish 
blood. Exeunt the royal race of Bagenals. 
Enter 

In spite of generations of reckless, combative 

Irish gentlemen, it is odd that we have still to go 

to American literature for the classical instances 

of impetuosity with firearms. This is a reproach 

c 33 



Thompson of Angel's 

to Irish authors wliich should touch them closely. 
Irish gentlemen were killing and wounding each 
other on sight almost for centuries before America 
was heard of, and yet it was left for Bret Harte 
and Mark Twain and John Hay in the Far West 
to fix the type of fire-eater that carried his 
honour in his belt. Perhaps a line or two from 
the elegiacs on Thompson of Angel's will best 
describe what I mean : — 

" Light and free was the touch of Thompson upon his 
revolver, 
Great the mortality incident on that lightness and freedom. 

Why [Thompson is musing], why in my daily walks does 

the surgeon drop his left eyelid. 
The undertaker smile, and the sculptor of gravestones 

and marble 
Lean on his chisel and gaze ? I care not o'er much for 

attention : 
Simple am I in my ways, save but for this lightness and 

freedom." 

Why were not similar elegiacs written years 
before on Bagenal of Dunleckny ? What is 
wrong with Irish authors ? But I would except 
Lever, who, as a matter of fact, has Bagenal 
himself in his K/iight of Gmjune — or the scenario 
of him — under the name of Bagenal Daly. Yet 
how far from life ! 

To read of Bagenal and his contemporaries is 
34 



The Decay of Duelling 

to be filled with wonder that any gentleman was 
left alive in Ii'eland at all. It was a state of 
society which at this day one simply cannot begin 
to understand. There are. Heaven knows, still 
enough ways of dying ; but the short-tempered 
and accurate-shooting Hibernian is no longer one 
of them. Whether or not we are less courageous I 
do not know ; but there is less engaging insolence 
about than there used to be, and less of conscious 
superiority. Jack not only was not as good as 
his master in King Bagenal's day, but he never 
thought he was. Similai'ly, his master then had 
no doubts ; but to-day very few of us are quite 
certain about anything, either on earth or else- 
where. Duelling goes out very quickly when 
dubiety comes in. The duellist is one who is 
sure of himself and his ground. Mr. Bagenal had 
no doubts. 

One word more of the Carlow King. The 
traditions of Dunleckny allege, says Daunt, that 
when Bagenal, " in the course of his tour through 
Europe, visited the petty Court of Mecklenburg- 
Strelitz, the Grand Duke, charmed with his mag- 
nificence and the reputation of his wealth, made 
him an offer of the hand of the fair Charlotte, 
who, being politely rejected by King Bagenal, 
was afterwards accepted by King George III." 
That sets the seal on his native royalty. The 
35 



Farewell to Bagenal 

King of England had to marry the King ot 
Carlow's leavings. It was well for our satirical 
literature that Bagenal was firm, for where would 
Peter Pindar have been had Farmer George not 
married the Princess Charlotte ? She was his 
best Muse. 

And so we leave the uncrowned king and come 
to the gate-keeper. 

All that I know of Edward Edge comes from a 
slender square book printed in 1899 in Alassio. 
It is compiled by H. H. W., and is entitled 
Edgiana : Being a Collection of Some of the Sayings 
of Edward Edge. Money cannot buy this book, 
which is as rare as an Elzevir, and much more 
humanly interesting. 

It would be amusing to accumulate conjectures 
as to who and what this Edward Edge was. How 
long would it be, I wonder, before anyone guessed 
that he Mas the keeper of the gate at St. Patrick's 
Deanery in Dublin — Swift's own deanery, but in 
a later day, 1865 until the late eighties, when he 
was pensioned off, to die, aged about eighty, 
in 1894'. That was Edward Edge's sphere of 
activity, and he adorned it, if not by any great 
distinction as a porter, at any rate with his 
flowers of speech. For Edge's niche in the 
Temple of Fame he owes to his tongue — to the 
readiness and freedom of it, to his store of odd 
36 



The richest Irish Talkers 

epithets and sudden searching criticisms^ and 
perhaps most of all to his vivid, although innocent, 
oaths. For just, as the French say, there is no 
need for a sculptor to be himself made of marble, 
so can a man keep a deanery gate and be no 
dean. Loyalty and fidelity Edge had to a degree 
not much, if any, less than a Christian martyr ; 
but he did not allow the contiguity of St. 
Patrick's to chasten his nimble objurgatory fancy 
or modify his memories. Glory be ! And 
H. H. W., in his turn, has not allowed the fear 
of wounding tender susceptibilities to stand in 
the way of a faithful reproduction of the old 
man's eloquence. You can, in fact, do a good 
deal in a book when you print it privately at 
Alassio. 

The two richest Irish talkers of recent times 
are, I suppose, Terence Mulvaney and Martin 
Dooley. But both are imaginary : projections of 
men of genius. Edward Edge lived ; his photo- 
graph is before me, a good deal like Charles 
Kingsley. Twenty years ago, the treasures of his 
vocabulary and the riches of his memory were 
at the service of anyone clever enough to get 
round him. And many a Dublin resident must 
remember him well. To draw Edge out, to lure 
him on to obiter dicta, became, indeed, a 
recognised pastime among the Dean's friends 
37 



Edge's Genealogy 

who were humorists, and it is eminently one of 
these who put together this very curious and 
perhaps unique little book. 

Edge came from Wicklow, where he was born 
about the year of Waterloo, and where he spent 
the first fifty years of his life. Here is his 
genealogy : — 

" Misther H., did ye ever hear tell of Edgware 
Road, in or about the city o' London ? Well, th' 
Edges owned that, and bedambut I'm thinkin' 
the weighty jiart o' the county o' Middlesex. It 
was Isaiah Edge that come over wid William, and 
was at the siege o' Derry. There's some o' th' 
Edges wouldn't look at me now. There's ould 
Ben Edge, a cousin o' mine, that owns all the 
coal-mines in the Queen's County. There's a 
third cousin o' mine — John Edge — that's Sittin' 
Justice of Inja. The Queen come up to him in 
the sthreet in London, and she taps him on the 
shouldher, and she says, ' Begod I'll make ye 
Sittin' Justice of Inja,' and that's what he is 
this minute. Now I might be dyin' be the 
I'oadside, and fire the bit he'd offer furta stan' me 
the price of a pint ! 

" My sixth grandmother Avas a Jewganawt 
[Huguenot]. Faith, she had to gother together 
all her ould pooks an' wallets an' away wid her 
out o' the city o' Pai'is in the year 1572. My 
great-grand-mother knew Latin an' Hay-ber-doo 
[Hebrew], and bedambut she had the weighty 
part o' the Gurdeek [Greek] toongue. There's an 

38 



Cardinal Newman 

ould sesther o' mine, that's a terrible savin' 
woman ; that wan id Hve on the elippins o' tin ! 
Faith, she'd go furder on a ha'penny nor I would 
on two shillin' ! 

"Now isn't it a wondherful thing furta say, in 
the regyard o' the breed o' th' Edges, that no 
matther some o' them might 'a become poor brutes 
and divils, there was never wan o' the breed that 
turdned Roman ! " 

He was a staunch Pi'otestant, and loved to 
attend controversial meetings at which Roman 
Catholics were corrected and repudiated. That, 
says his biographer, was probably all the religion 
he knew — the glow of satisfaction upon the rout, 
real or imagined, of the heretics. His hostility 
to Rome was continual, as, indeed, became a good 
" Dane's Man." Observe him before a portrait of 
Cardinal Newman : — 

"Sure, what the blazes does Misther John have 
the likes of him on the Avail for.-* Heth an' if I 
had that ould fella's picture, I'd fire him out on 
the sthreet, and bedambut I'd lep on him, so I 
would. [Going up close to the picture and 
peering into it.] Musha, a dam ould Roman ej/e ; 
that's what he has ! " 

But he could be ftiir, too. " My opinion," he 
said once, " it don't matter Adam what bl — y 
denomination a man id belong ta ! Sure there's 
rogues Roman an' there's rogues Prodesan' ! " 
39 



Pronunciation's Artful Aid 

The old man could write and read with much 
difficulty ; hence probably the quaintness and 
personal character of his vocabulary, which — 
like a child's — consisted lai'gely of words as he 
thought he heard them. Hence " alcohol " 
became " alcordn " ; " Protestant/' " Prodesan " ; 
" Admiral/' " Admirdle " ; " girl/' " g'yairdle " ; 
"foreigners/' "fawrdners " ; ''colonel/' "cui'dlan/' 
and so forth. One book he had of which 
he never tired. Culpepers Herbal — " The 
Culpeper " he called it — and drew all his remedies, 
save a few into which a modern spirit entered, 
from its depths. 

Himself the soul of honesty, he delighted 
artistically in bold rogues, whatever their de- 
nomination might be ; but probably pi-eferred 
them, when bold, to be "Prodesan" — such as 
Frank Splay, the window-cleaner : — 

" Well, ould Splay (the Catholic I call him, an' 
he all the time a good Prodesan) come into the 
lodge th' other night, about the time he was 
afther takin' Lord Plunket's pledge. ' Well, 
Frank,' says I, ' how didja fare yistherda' ? ' ' Aw, 
very well,' says he ; ' I was clanin' the windas 
for such and such an ould wan.' ' Tell me,' says 
I, ' and did she give ye a tundherin' fine dinner ? ' 
' Faith, she did ; I eat may be 3 lbs. o' beef — the 
dinner was out o' the way good.' ' And did she 
give ye ne'er a hap'orth to dhrink ? ' ' Begob and 
40 



" A Terrible Cute Chap " 

she did so ; " heth an/' says she, " me poor man, I 
believe your dinner isn't complate without the 
dhrink ! " ' ' Begor I believe not, ma'am,' says he. 
Well, what the divil should he do but he takes 
and dhrinks two or three pints o' Guinness's finest. 
' Aw, gog's bloog an' 'ounds,' says I to him, ' y'ould 
thief Frank, but yer afther breakin' Lord Plunket's 
pledge ! ' 

" ' Heth an' I am not,' says he ; ' sui'e I didn't 
pail for the po-ert-ther ! ' 

" Aw, Frank's a great ould rogue entirely ! 

" Well, there was another time he was clanin' 
for an ould lady on the Sare'lar Koad. Mindja 
there was an ould cupboard in the cordner wid 
the divil a less nor a mather o' 3 lbs. o' beef in it. 
Well, when th' ould wan had her back turdned 
an' she out o' the room, what the blazes divilment 
should he be up ta but he goes up to the cupboard 
and bl — y end to the thruppence but he eat 
every dambit o' the beef out o' that, and bad 
luck t'all but he sticks the th' ould cat locked up 
inside the cupboard. Presently she comes down 
to the kitchen an' opens the press. 

" ' Aw, gog's bloog an' fury,' says she, ' the 
cat's afther atin' all me beef on me I had for yer 
dinner. I'm sorry, me poor man, Fve nothin' 
furta give ye t'ate ! ' ' Faith, so am I, ma'am,' 
says he, 'more's the pity! ' — an' he wid the 3 lbs. 
o' beef in his ould body all the time, the great 
ould thief. Faith, Frank's a terrible cute chap 
entirely in the regyard of all soorts o' divilment ! " 

I quote a few of his detached sayings or pensees. 
41 



Various Obiter Dicta 

Of the waves at Newcastle : — 

" Aw ! the waves up here does be nothin' to- 
wardst what there was below in Newcastle comin' 
up to forty or fifty year ago. There'd be waves 
there, and bloog an' 'ounds there'd be room for 
a whole regiment to marcli in undher the curdle 
o' the wave wid th' arch it did make." 

Of ablutions and shaving : — 

" Sathurda' nights or Sunda' morn'ns is times 
enough for a man to wash his hands ! sure a man 
that id wash his hands more nor that, id have no 
indiist/iri/ ! " [? Any etymological connection in his 
mind with " Dust " .''] 

"It's of a Sathurda' night I'd always tear the 
heavy scoom off o' me puss wid th' ould razor." 

Of a cure for a cold : — 

" If it was a thing ye had a heavy surfeit o' 
cowld, faith there's nothing betther ye could do 
only take an' ate a rale terrible ould salty book 
haird'n [buck herring !] that id give ye the divil's 
drooth [drought, i.e. thirst], an' then nothin' id 
sadisfy ye but ye should swally two or three 
bookets o' cowld spring wather, an' agin yid be 
in bed, be the tundherin' Mack, the lather o' 
pesperation yid be in id sweep the cowld to blazes 
out o' your body ! " 

Concerning homoeopathy : — 

" Aw sure I know all about the Home-potticks ; 
sure it was a woman in the city o' Paris that in- 
42 



Three Proud Boasts 

vented it. Little seeds and ground airubs [herbs] 
— that's the way the' goes to work ! " 

Of one who had been dismissed for drinking : — 

" Well now, it's a quare thing furta say ould 
XYZ should 'a been put out of it for the dhrink, 
an' he as daycent a man as ever carried a shillin' ! 
Heth an' I always thought he was a man that 
could Iioiild a sup without lettin in ! " 

Of a sportsman : — • 

" One o' the brothers was a docthor ; th' other 
follied shootin' — he'd be always shootin' — an' 
gog's great tare an 'ounds but he was a grand 
shot ! All nations id be comin' furta shoot agin 
him, but the' might as well 'a stopped at home. 
Aw, there's nothin' that flies — nothin' undher 
the stars — but he'd hit." 

And here are three of his proud boasts : — 

" There's not a man in all Ireland, put England 
to it that same, that id be able furta hould a 
candle to me in the matther o' puttin' down 
doong ! 

" There's not a man in Ireland that id be able 
to read the names over the shop-doors agin me ! 

" Misther H., I might be blind dhroonk, and 
dammyskin I'd be safer in the regyard o' lockin' 
and boultn' th' ould gate nor another man id be 
an' he black sober ! " 

Let me close with H. H. W.'s description of 
43 



His Sunday Glory 

this simple profane old man in all the glory of 
authority on a Sunday afternoon : — 

''Punctually at 4.30 he would take his stand 
just outside the door, on the pavement, leaving 
the door ajar, to vi^ait for the Dean's coming 
in from the Cathedral. Edge would often have 
more than half an hour to wait before the Dean 
appeared, but these were perhaps the proudest 
moments of the week for him, for in the mean- 
time the departing congregation, including the 
elite of Dublin residents and visitors, some 
driving, some on foot, would have filed by ; and 
as he stood there, cndimanche with clean collar 
and the best ' rig ' he could muster, in full view 
of all ' the Quality ' did they but turn their heads 
to see him, he experienced to the full a dignified 
consciousness of being ' the Dane's port-ther,' and 
moreover of executing that function ' betther nor 
any man in Ireland.' " 

Edward Edges there must always be — trans- 
parent, huinorous souls who do their duty and 
worship their masters — but with the spread of 
education and papers their speech is bound to 
become less individual and racy. The more 
praise, then, to H. H. W. for preserving for us 
these jewels that fell from the old gate-keeper's 
lips. 



44 



From Persia to Aberdeen ^^ o o 

TT is my misfortune to be just too late for most 
of the more dramatic incidents of the open 
air. Once, for example, walking with a naturalist 
in St. Leonard's Forest and lagging for some 
minutes behind him (the only time I had done so 
during the day), I joined him just as he was 
standing as still as a stone watching a bank. " If 
you had come a minute sooner," he said, "you 
would have seen a snake swallow her young." 
That is the kind of thing that happens to me. 

Again, last year, I went to stay in a house 
under the South Downs close to a little spinney, 
and was met by the news that an old vixen had 
cubs there and everyone had seen them playing 
together. I need hardly say that I did not. Yet 
a lady that I know well, who cares nothing for 
these things, once came on a small fox-cub that 
had lost itself near Willingdon, in Sussex, and 
nursed it in her arms. I, who would value such 
45 



A Cat carrying Kittens 

an experience rightly^ will go down to my grave 
and never find anything. Even moles elude me. 

With the exciting untoward incidents of 
civilised life I am equally unlucky. Last year, 
for example, while at Cowes, on two distinct days 
I followed a race for some hours, and left each, as 
it turned out afterwards, only a minute or so 
before the mast of one of the yachts was carried 
away. I am not lucky. The harvest of my quiet 
eye comprises little that is unusual. Horses have 
always risen again before I can reach the crowd. 
Fires are always out. Men in fits have recovered. 

But there is an exception now and then ; and 
I have seen a pretty thing to-day of which I had 
before only heard and had much wanted to see. 
I have seen a cat carrying her kittens. 

This cat is even more unsatisfactory than the 
generality of her selfish kind. Her life is more 
resolutely detached from that of her owners ; her 
return for any kindness that is shown her is even 
less spontaneous and noticeable. It is testimony 
to the amazing cleverness of cats that they are 
kept and fed at all, to say nothing of being petted. 
It all comes back to the old truth that if you 
want people to honour you, you must despise 
them. 

This cat began her career of tyranny by making 
us walk five miles instead of two at the end of a 
46 



Expense continuous 

tiring day ; but a houseful of beautiful wild 
creatures, blue and elusive as wood smoke, was 
compensation enough. Melisande (as we will 
call her here) was one of them, and her second act 
of tyraimy was to make us pay far too much for 
her, or, at any rate, more than I could afford. 
Her third was to catch an expensive cold, her 
fourth to have an expensive consort, and her fifth 
to have four expensive and delicate children. 
What their delicacy cost I have no notion, but 
there is a firm of veterinary surgeons whose 
books could tell. 

For these kittens, I may remark, Melisande 
cared nothing, and it is no exaggeration to say 
that her first display of anything like affection for 
her mistress coincided with the departure of the 
last of her family, bound for a neighbouring 
chemist, who puts an end to unfortunate animals 
at a shilling a head. Nothing in life, indeed, so 
became these kittens as their departure from it, 
for none of their medicaments to keep them alive 
had cost so little as this extremely reasonable 
coup-de-grace. 

We were soon to discover, however, that 
Melisande's callous treatment of her first children 
resulted less from the want of maternal feeling than 
from a deep-rooted and almost passionate Radical- 
ism that led her to desire by any means to debase 
47 



Blue Persian Philosophy 

her blood and to despise everything that was of 
equally high lineage. For her long pedigree 
now reposing in my desk (which goes back even 
to Darius) she cared less than nothing. She 
believed in the people and was prepared to back 
her belief — even to consorting day and night 
with a perfectly awful sandy cat with a permanent 
black smudge on his left cheek. And now she has 
three new kittens — one jet black, one rather like 
herself but sadly democratised, and one tabby — 
and she loves them to distraction. It was these 
that I met her carrying, having decided to change 
her home from the wood stack to some more 
convenient address, nearer the kitchen. 

On the strength of our experience with 
Melisande, my advice would be — not to buy a 
pure-bred cat of great distinction. I am perhaps 
underrating the aesthetic pleasure which a Blue 
Persian can give. This I know can be intense, 
and there are moments when Melisande is dis- 
tractingly lovely— as lovely as a pearl-grey sea, or 
an evening mist. Her eyes, too, are of a burning 
orange unlike anything else in Nature. But 
although she is superlatively distinguished in her 
beauty, it must be remembered that there never 
was a cat that could do anything ugly. Even 
that vile sandy cat with the smudge to whom 
Melisande gave her heart has the most exquisite 
48 



The best Cat I know 

contours. The curves and graces of the ordinary 
household cat are perhaps for all practical 
purposes beauty enough for a working English 
home ; and when to these is allied a dependent, 
or even projirietary, interest in the human 
members of the family — a dallying to be 
scratched, a purring on the hearth, and a coaxing 
presence at meals in the hope of a scrap — why, 
then, to anyone who values friendliness as I do, 
the ordinary cat becomes more to be desired than 
any prize-winning queen. 

The best cat I know at this moment lives 
in Northamptonshire, and follows its master and 
mistress wherever they go, about the garden and 
fields — ^_iust like a dog, only with more circum- 
spection. Whenever they stop the cat stops too, 
and perhaps leans against their legs. When they 
goon the cat goes on too, just behind, silently, 
composedly, like a shadow with a waving tail. I 
should like a cat that would do that. Instead, we 
have the costly Melisande, who would not lift a 
finger if she saw me drowning. 

I am onl3^just beginning really to understand 
the nature of the Aberdeen. Our last was a very 
ingratiating little bitch, full of affection and 
roguishness, who, however, was with us for so 
short a time, and during that time was so occupied 
in thoughts as to how to evade our vigilance and 
D 49 



The Call of Nature 

be getting on M'ith the true business of life, 
becoming a mother — that we never had the un- 
dress material workings of her mind at all. Even 
when most coquettish and endearing, even when 
putting in motion all the machinery of lovable- 
nesSj with her head on one's chest and the 
ridiculous boot buttons which she called her eyes 
looking up into one's face, her brain, to a keen 
observer, was manifestly busy over one matter 
only, and that the old topic. 

Precautions we had to take, because there were 
two very sound reasons why Betty ought not to 
have puppies yet. One was that she was far too 
young, being herself but a mere chit ; and the 
other that the neighbourhood contained no 
husband of equal birth. But one might as well 
attempt to stop the tide as control these affairs. 
A male Aberdeen mysteriously appeared within 
call, and Betty's face assumed an expression of 
amused satisfaction. . . . 

Her owners, however, who became wise only 
long after the event, had no suspicion. . . . 

One day she disappeared, and was absent for 
so long — nearly a week — that we gave her up 
completely. And then one evening she suddenly 
was in the room again, very thin, very demonstra- 
tive, but also very nervous and restless. She I'an to 
the door and back again. She whined all the time. 
5° 



A Lesson Learnt 

There is a story in a book that I read far too 
many years ago, when I was at niy first school, 
which tells how a inerchant who was travelling 
with a large bag of money sat down by the road- 
side to rest, and on resuming his journey forgot 
(as merchants do in stories, but nowhere else) his 
property. His dog, however, perceived the error, 
and, by jumping up at him and barking, did its 
best to impede his steps, make him think, and 
drive him back. The merchant endured this for 
some time, and then, persuaded that the creature 
was mad, and having tested it with water, which 
it was too unhappy to stop and drink, drew his 
pistol and shot it. The poor thing, bleeding 
horribly, crawled away and disappeared. Some 
hours afterwards the merchant at last missed his 
bag, hurriedly retraced his steps to his resting- 
place, and there found it safe and sound — with 
his dog's lifeless body stretched across it. True 
or untrue, this story made a great impression on 
me, and I remember determining never to be so 
foolish as to disregard, in the unimaginative 
mercantile manner, the dumb gestures of any 
animal ; and therefore, when Betty had run to 
the door and back several times, I lit a lantern, 
tied a long string to her collar, and expressed my 
intention of going with her wherever she might 
lead, no matter how far. 
51 



Betty's Secret 

She took me painfully at my word, dragging 
me at a gallop down an almost vertical bank, 
thick with brambles and very wet with dew. On 
and on I went, slipping and sliding and torn, 
until she suddenly disappeared as thoroughly as 
if the earth had swallowed her. As it indeed 
had, for she had entered a large deep hole under 
the roots of a tree. With great difficulty I hauled 
her forth again and stretched my arm into the 
hole as far as it would go, but could feel nothing. 
Meanwhile Betty was so pulling at the cord and 
fighting to get back again that I allowed her to 
do so, listening the while very attentively, and I 
was presently aware in the remoter recesses of 
this planet of a faint whimpering, and knew the 
secret of her absence and her retreat. She had 
puppies, and in her pride of motherhood had 
chosen to make her own home for them. No one 
should help. It was only because hunger had 
■conquered that she had returned to the house. 

Her pride, however, was not stubborn, and 
when the puppies were extricated with a rake 
and placed comfortably in a basket near the fire, 
she was the happiest mother that the Granite 
City ever sent forth. 

With Betty my acquaintance with Aberdeens 
for a while ceased, for she soon after left us, and 
Jier one puppy that we kept early developed fits 
52 



The Thin End of the Wedge 

and died — the effect, I imagine, of his mother's 
matei'iial precocity. But recently I have taken 
up my studies in Aberdeen terrierdom again, 
having acquired direct from Aberdeen one Boby, 
Avho is, I am told, a fine example of the breed. 
He travelled alone at the age of four months 
from Scotland to St. Pancras, and was to be 
fetched in the forenoon. It was, however, later 
before that could be, and in the meantime he 
had thrown the Aberdeen spell over most of the 
parcels' office staff, and was surrounded by the 
luxuries of the season. I doubt if any other dog 
could do this as an Aberdeen can. It is a regular 
habit with them to have all they want. I have 
a theory that this is partly because they are so 
like little pigs. Everyone adores little pigs, and 
everyone would like to pet one ; but nobody has 
ever done so. In default the Aberdeen puppy, 
who is the next thing to a little pig, receives a 
double share of attention — part for his likeness 
for that other and part for himself. His nose, 
too, must have a share in his victories. It is the 
thin end of the wedge made visible. The rest 
cannot but follow. 

I don't know how it is with Aberdeens whom 

time has sobered into grisly fidelity, such as I 

see following their masters as dinghys follow 

yachts ; but at the age of six months, judging by 

53 



Aberdeen and Spaniel 

this Boby, they are not readily obedient, not 
brave, and not unselfishly affectionate! Such love 
as Boby offers is cupboard love purely. He adds 
to these defects a curious lack of enterprise : lie 
cares nothing for a walk. If by any chance it 
is necessary to chastise him or even reprimand 
him when he is out — principally for eating un- 
suitable things — he runs straight home again, 
and, carrying his wounded heart into the kitchen 
(where he reigns), is healed in the usual manner. 
It is my experience that dogs do not vary much : 
each is a type of his breed ; and so I make bold 
to deduce from Boby the generalisation that all 
Aberdeens are self-protective. Perhaps they get 
it from their country. 

In a dog self-protectiveness is rather a grave 
defect, showing very black against the radiant 
whiteness of the character of the other dog here 
— a spaniel — who does all that one wants a dog 
to do : is very loyal, full of trust in you, brave, 
enterprising, and so much attached to his people 
that probably no amount even of actual cruelty 
would alienate him or cause him to prefer his 
own company. Indeed, he hates his own 
company ; and that, I take it, is a virtue in a 
dog. But he has no finesse, no moods, no arts. 
You must take a spaniel for what he is — always 
the same. It is the special privilege of the 
54 



J 



The Art of Begging 

Aberdeen puppy to have temperament and wiles : 
to get back by stealth, by cleverness, by sheer 
force of personality and a capriciousness as well 
ordered as that of any pretty actress, all and more 
that he may be in danger of losing by defects of 
character. For his hours of coldness he atones 
by a few minutes of exquisite dependence ; for 
his long fickleness — giving all his store to a total 
stranger and keeping ten yards between himself 
and his own — he makes up by falling at the right 
moment prone at one's feet with his paws in the 
air, constituting an invitation to scratch and for- 
get that no ordinarily constituted human being 
can resist. 

But probably the biggest gun in the deadly 
armouiy of the Aberdeen is the art of begging. 
Begging is almost a birthright with an Aberdeen. 
It is as natural to him as to a hospital ; and he 
knows its power. He knows that masters and 
mistresses are snobs, and like to be begged to : 
that it is one of our foibles. This he knows, and 
gains immensely by it. While other dogs are 
fussily striving to attract attention at the table, 
and being told to lie down, the Aberdeen is 
seated quietly at the side of the weakest guest, 
being plied with delicacies and consuming them 
without a sound. The quietest Aberdeen that I 
ever met was at the Dorset Arms at East 
55 



Vertical and Unashamed 

Grinstead, a pleasant hostelry, with Dr. Johnson's 
chah' from the Essex Head, and signed photo- 
graphs of Dan Leno, and miles of Ashdown Forest 
from the coffee-room window. An aged Aberdeen 
lives, or lived, there, who will sit motionless by 
your chair for hours if need be, with a look of re- 
signed, almost pious, patience on his countenance. 
You never see him come in or go out. When you 
sit down he is not there ; but suddenly he is, as 
still as a ghost, and to all appearances as solidly 
fixed in his vertical position as the Nelson Column. 
Our little Boby is leai'ning the same device. 
No one taught him ; but one day, the time having 
arrived, instead of lying down as heretofore, he 
subsided naturally on his tail, lifted his fore-paws, 
and was begging. Straightway we passed utterly 
into his power, and he perceived it, and now in 
extreme cases he begs even where there is no 
meal in progress. For mercy, the superficial 
observer might think ; but that is not so : no 
Aberdeen would beg for mercy, being in a position 
to command it. He begs by instinct — as the 
simplest way out of his difficulty ; and it is so. 
Begging is merely one of the thousand and one 
wiles of this fascinating, naughty, incorrigible, 
and wholly adorable breed. 



56 



I 



The Search and the Gift ^^ ^o ^^^ 

' I ^HE other clay I lent a lady Gaboriau's 
Dossier 113, which she returned with the 
remark that she liked the ingenuity of it but 
■wished there was not so much crime. Without 
quite subscribing to this criticism, I think there is 
a good deal in it — for gentle ladies — and while 
meditating thereon, it occurred to me that there 
is an excellent opening, as the advertisements 
say, for a writer who will apply the principles of 
the detective story to blameless affairs— that is 
to say, retaining the detective but eliminating 
• the bloodstains and the dark passions of Mont- 
martre. 

For, after all, the fascinating part of a detective 
story is not the murder or the theft, but the 
methods of the detective ; not the poetical justice 
at the close, but the steps by which it has been 
reached. In a word, the fascinating thing about 
a detective story is the seai'ch. 
57 



The Great Seekers 

The search is one of the oldest motives in 
literature, and it remains one of the strongest — 
the search either for an object or an idea — for a 
golden fleece, like Jason's, or a father, like Tele- 
machus' ; for definite hidden treasures, like John 
Silver's, or adventures that may come, like Don 
Quixote's or Lavengro's ; for a criminal, like 
Lecoq's or Sherlock Holmes's, or a religion, like 
Lothair's ; for a wife, like Coelebs', or for position, 
like Evan Harrington's. These are very different 
examples, but the search motive is their basis, 
and it is the basis of half the faiiy stories. 

I am striking into too high a road. My original 
idea was that there should be a new novel of con- 
crete search, retaining the detective and all his 
ingratiating methods, but retaining them only for 
the absorbing interest of inquiry — that alluring 
quality which one might call sleuthiness ; and not 
that the cell or the gallows should claim their 
own. Quite the reverse, indeed ; for whereas in 
the ordinary detective story a man is pursued in • 
order to be punished, in the new detective story 
he might be tracked in order to be rewarded. 
No matter why the detective was engaged — 
whether at the whim of an eccentric or by a firm 
of lawyers to find an heir — his methods need not 
differ. All his gifts of deduction, his disguises, 
his resource, his godlike opportunism, that we 
58 



Hariot Pickin's Sampler 

find so irresistible^ might be retained ; but his 
revolver and handcuffs — those, I fear, would go. 
Their absence would not, however, impair the 
search — and the search is the thing. 

But my scheme would do more than merely 
satisfy the reader's craving for excitement. It 
would automatically bring back the novel of 
character, the novel of adventure on the road 
among men and women of to-day — the real 
romance. Let us take an example to illustrate 
what I mean ; and it happens that the very lady 
Avho made the criticism which started me on these 
meditations supplies what I want. With the 
returned copy of Gaboriau's story came a present 
of an old sampler — very restful to look upon, with 
its faded silks all sobered by time into soft neutral 
tints, and a primitive representation of the Tree 
of Knowledge flanked by our first parents, the 
serpent intervening. Above are these verses, 
spelt in a pre-Rooseveltean day : — 

"Jesus, permit thy grarachious name to stand 
As the first efifots of my youthful hand, 
And as my little fingers over the canvas move, 
Engage my tender heart to seak thy love, 
With thy dear children have a part, 
And Wright my name myself upon Jesusis heart." 

At the foot is written — 

" Hariot Pickin worked this sampler June 2, aged 13, 1828." 
59 



Instructions to a Detective 

Now, what could be a better task to set a 
detective than to find Hariot Pickin or her 
descendants? She was thirteen in June 1828: 
that is to saVp if alive to-day she is an old lady of 
ninety-two. Did she marry ? If so^ her name 
probably ceased to be Pickin. No doubt the 
tracking of Hariot would not take very long ; but 
sevei'al things about it are certain. One is that 
the modus operandi of the discoverer would be 
interesting, and the other is that his inquiries 
would of necessity take him among many persons, 
and v/ould, faithfully recorded, make excellent 
reading. I often find myself pining a good deal 
for the old-fashioned kind of novel in which there 
are long journe3^s, and in which new characters 
are continually appearing. The search for Hariot 
Pickin, in capable hands, should yield much satis- 
faction of this kind. 

Another example. I turn to my shelves and take 
down an old book. It is Bunyan's Holy War, in 
calf, much stained and battei'ed. On the fly-leaf, 
in a very faint ink, is written " David Sandeman" ; 
on the top of the introduction, also in very faint 
ink, " Wm. Bathgate." " Bring me," suppose I 
were to say to the detective, "as soon as you can, 
full particulars of this David Sandeman and this 
William Bathgate." Would it not be an interest- 
ing task ? W^ould not the record of his adventures 
60 



The Right Kind of Reader 

be full of human nature ? Probably thei'e have 
been so many David Sandemans and William 
Bathgates that he could not do it ; but it serves 
as an example, and in this kind of story failure is 
of little importance, since the real thing is the 
people by the way. Anything that can multiply 
good novels of people by the way is to be desired. 

But I have still a third example. When I 
reached my modest home the other evening, 
I found a parcel and a letter. The letter had 
neither beginning nor end, nor had it any 
address ; it merely said, in a firm and generous 
hand, that the writer, having gathered from 
certain printed words of mine that I like the 
good things of the earth (when I can get them !), 
and having also a feeling that the pleasure that 
she had drawn from these and other printed 
words of mine ought to be repaid a little, was 
leaving at my door two packets of caravan-borne 
tea which had come to her from Russia, and 
which she liked to think her friends were drink- 
ing — she herself, she added, adhering the while 
to her customary half-crown blend. 

Now, here was a pretty thought and a pretty 
deed ! Of caravan-borne tea I had often heard, 
but had never drunk any, much less owned it. 
And of gratitude I had often occasionally heard 
whisperings, but not much of that does one meet 
6i 



" If this should meet the Eye . . ." 

with either. Yet here were both together! Well, 
I drank the tea, and it was exquisite ; but the 
trouble — the little drop of bitter in the teacup — 
was how was I to say " thank you " for it. I 
suppose, logically speaking, I had been saying 
" thank you " for a long time, putting the cart 
before the horse, so to speak : so at least the 
lady's kind-hearted letter indicates with such 
grace. But who would be logical ? I wanted to 
say it again. 

Of course I did nothing ; but here was a chance 
for a search-novel all to hand. To find that Lady 
Bountiful ! I might, of course, have stumbled on 
the trail instantly ; and it might have taken years. 
Sherlock Holmes, I suppose, would have placed 
her letter under the microscope ; he would have 
analysed the ink ; he would have carried a little 
sample of the tea to the Docks — possibly even to 
Russia. How interesting it would all be ! 

So I have never been able to say " Thank you." 
Not until now. 

And yet will She read this book also, or have I 
outstayed my welcome ? . . . 



62 



A Philosopher that Failed <:?• <o e?^ 

(~\F Oliver Edwards, nothing, I believe, is. 
^-^ known beyond the fiict that he had been 
at Pembroke College with Dr. Johnson ; that he 
was a solicitor in Barnard's Inn ; that he married 
twice ; that he lived on a little farm of sixty 
acres near Stevenage and came to London tMice 
a week ; and that he wore grey clothes and a wig 
with many curls, and went to church on Good 
Fridays, We know of Edwards' life only this, 
and of his speech we have only some dozen sen- 
tences ; and yet he will live for ever, by virtue of 
having crossed the stage of literature on one fine 
morning one hundi*ed and twenty-nine years ago. 
He might be likened to the bird with which the 
Venerable Bede compared the life of man in a 
famous and beautiful passage : the bird that flies. 
out of the dark void into the lighted banqueting 
hall and out again into the void once more. So 
with Edwards : for sixty years he was not ; then 
63 



A Good Friday Meeting 

he met Dr. Johnson and his Boswell hi Butcher 
Row, stayed with them for an hour ; and was not 
again. But the hour was sufficient : it gave him 
time to make his one deathless remark. By 
virtue of that remark he hves, and will live. 

Edwards's day was Good Friday, April 17, 
1778 — "a delightful day," says Boswell. How 
little the good Edwards can have thought, as he 
climbed out of his bed in Barnard's Inn that 
morning and donned his grey clothes and his 
curly wig, that he was about to become immortal. 
He spent, I take it, the early hours in his office, 
reading conveyances or deeds and writing letters ; 
then he went to church, whither Dr. Johnson and 
Boswell had also gone, to St. Clement's, which 
through some strange stroke of luck is standing, 
with the Doctor's pew intact within it, to this 
dark, irreverent, rebuilding day. 

On the way Boswell (who could gi*ow the 
flower quite easily now, having obtained much 
seed) remarked that Fleet Street was the most 
cheerful scene in the world, adding, skilfully as 
he thought, " Fleet Street is, in my mind, more 
delightful than Tempe ! " The Doctor, however, 
having the same dislike of the imitator that most 
teachers and all cynics possess, had his dash of 
cold water ready. " Ay, ay, but let it be com- 
pared with Mull." So they passed on to church, 
64 



The Country Life 

M'here the Doctor was pleased to see so numerous 
a congregation. 

It was after church that they met Edwards, 
whom Johnson had not seen for forty years. 
The recognition came from the lawyer, a 
talkative, friendly, and not easily daunted 
man, who thereafter quickly got to work and 
enlai'ged to Boswell on the pleasure of living in 
the country. Boswell, again in the true John- 
sonian manner, replied, " I have no notion of this, 
sir. What you have to entertain you is, I think, 
exhausted in half an hour." But Edwards Avas 
deeper and more sincere. "What," he said, 
" don't you love to have hope realised ? I see my 
grass, and my corn, and my trees growing. Now, 
for instance, I am curious to see if this frost has 
not nipped my fruit trees." Johnson, who had 
been in a reverie, possibly missing the familiar 
scent of incense, — for, in spite of Boswell's 
innuendoes to the contrary, Edwards does not 
appear to have been at all impressed by the 
magnitude and lustre of his old friend, — here re- 
marked, " You find, sir, you have fears as well as 
hopes ; " and I am glad he did so, for it gave 
Boswell the opportunity to add the reflection, "So 
well did he see the whole when another saw but 
the half of a subject." And yet it is more than 
likely that Edwards saw the whole too. 
E 65 



The Parson's Happy Lot 

Being comfortably seated in the Bolt Court 
library on this sunny Good Friday, Edwards, who 
had already commented with delightful blunt- 
ness, but perfect innocence, on the Doctor's age, 
remarked, ^' Sir, I remember you would not let 
us say 'prodigious' at college. For even then," 
he added, turning to Boswell, '' he was delicate 
in language, and we all feared him." Johnson 
said nothing of this at the time, but to his 
Boswell said afterwards, in private, " Sir, they 
respected me for my literature " — meaning by 
"they" the undergraduates — "and yet it was 
not great but by comparison. Sir, it is amazing 
how little literatui'e there is in the world." That 
was one hundred and twenty-nine years ago, and 
it is amazing still. 

The conversation with Edwards then turned 
to money, and it came out that the lawyer had 
given much away. He also admitted to a longing 
to be a parson and live in comfort and comparative 
idleness. Johnson had an opening here, and took 
it. " I would rather have Chancery suits upon my 
hands," he said, "than the care of souls. No, sir, 
I doiiot envy a clergyman's life as an easy life, 
nor do I envy the clergyman who makes it an 
easy life." Edwards, however, did. There is no 
evidence that the Doctor convinced him. My 
impression is that he was never convinced by 
66 



The Johnsonian Game 

anyone's arguments. I picture him as the kind 
of man who goes through life contentedly, secure 
in his own opinion. 

Nothing could daunt Edwards, and so innocent 
and happy was he that he had no notion he was 
not observing the strict rules of the game. The 
rules of the Johnson conversational game made 
it imperative that you should utter only questions 
or provocative opinions, and then wait for the 
answer and receive it humbly. But Edwards 
smilingly broke them all. He asked questions, 
it is true, but long before the Doctor could 
reply he had volunteered, with ajopalling hardi- 
hood, scraps of autobiography. If there is one 
thing an autobiographer like Johnson cannot 
stand it is the autobiography of others. And 
yet the Doctor, with his great human imagina- 
tion, knew that Edwards was a pearl of sincerity 
and candour, and in his heart, I am sure, valued 
him accordingly. " I have been twice married. 
Doctor," said Edwards, apropos of nothing, 
cheerily adding the terrifying sentiment, " You, 
I suppose, have never known what it was to 
have a wife ? " This — to Johnson ! We can 
see Boswell shivering on his chair's edge. 
" Sir," said Dr. Johnson, " I have known what 
it was to have a wife, and [in a solemn, tender, 
faltering tone] I have known what it was to lose 
67 



" Some hogsheads, I warrant you " 

a wife. It had almost broke my heart." Edwards 
was unabashed. He said instantly, " How do 
you live, sir?" adding, "For my part, I must 
have my regular meals and a glass of good wine." 
Dr. Johnson replied suitably — the kind of reply 
that would usually settle the matter among 
his guests — " I now drink no wine, sir. Early in 
life I drank wine ; for many years I drank none. 
I then for some yeai's drank a great deal." 
Edwards rose to a fine height of irreverence 
here, to the immense dismay, I have no doubt, 
of Boswell, who, with all his advantages, had 
not been at Pembroke with his hero. He cut 
in with, "Some hogsheads, I warrant you." The 
Doctor succeeded in taking no notice (quite pos- 
sibly he was secretly flattered ; we all like to be 
credited with great deeds), and continued his 
dull alimentary history ; but the victory was 
Edwards's, for the Doctor, when asked if he 
ate supper, merely and very uncharacteristically 
said " No," leaving it for his visitor to remark, 
with something of the great man's own manner 
made human, " For my part, now, I consider 
supper as a turnpike through which one must 
pass in order to get to bed." 

That is good enough ; but it is not the single 
remark by which Edwaixls is known — on which 
his deathless fame rests. That had come earlier. 



Cheerfulness breaking in 

" You are a })hilosopher, Dr. Johnson/' said 
Edwards. '' 1 have tried, too, in my time to be 
a philosopher ; but I don't know how ; cheer- 
fulness was always breaking in." That was 
Edwards's great speech. By virtue of that 
candid confession he takes his place with the 
shining company of simple souls, the hierarchy 
of the ingenuous. It was too much for Boswell, 
who had no eye for children, young or old. But 
on repeating it to Mr. Burke, Sir Joshua Reynolds, 
Mr. Courtenay, Mr. Malone, and, indeed, all the 
eminent men he knew, they said with one accord 
that " it was an exquisite trait of character." He 
therefore refrained from belittling it in the book. 
To Boswell's intense I'elief, Edwards at last 
went. He had begun by calling Dr. Johnson 
(who was sixty-nine) old; he left with another 
reference to his age. Looking him full in the 
face, he said, " You'll find in Dr. Young the line, 

'O my coevals! remnants of yourselves.'" 

When he was gone, Boswell came to himself 
again, and quickly remarked that he thought 
him a weak man ; and the Doctor, smarting 
under the imputation of senility, was, I regret 
to say, weak enough to agree. But they were 
both wrong. Edwards was a strong man — strong 
in his cheerfulness and his transparency. 
69 



A Sketch Book ^o- o ^o ^c> ^> 
I 

T^ VER since I first read Mr. Housman's Shrop- 
^^ shire Lad, that beautiful, melancholy eulogy 
of Nature and elegy on Man, these lines have run 
in my head, and " Some 
" Clunton and Clunbury, j^y," I have said, "I 

Clungunford and Clun, .,, . r<\ " a i 

, ^ . , will go to Clun. And 

Are the quietest places ° 

Under the sun." "^w I have seen Clun, 

and Clunton, and Clun- 
bury (but not Clungunford), and I know that 
the poet is one who tells the truth. They are 
the quietest places under the sun. 

I walked to Clun from Craven Arms, that 
busy junction of rails in a country of road travel- 
lers, under the shadow of Callow Hill and Wen- 
lock Edge ; and by great good fortune I walked 
on a Monday morning — good fortune, because on 
Mondays there is an auction of cattle at Craven 
Arms, and faring westward then one meets 
70 



The Road to Clun 

little companies of sheep and lambs, and little com- 
panies of bullocks, and here a stallion, and there a 
bull, and carts containing jolly Shropshire farmers 
in front and calves under nets behind, and carts 
containing just jolly Shropshire farmers, and carts 
containing jolly Shropshire farmers in front and 
pigs behind, and jolly Shropshire farmers on 
horseback, and now and then a woman with a 
basket. And sometimes the sheep are driven by 
old men, and sometimes by boys, and sometimes 
by men on horseback, and once on this Monday 
by a gay young farmer on a bicycle, his machine 
being the only modern note in the day. For the 
rest, it was sheer Chaucer. 

Thus it was all the way to Clun — or nearly all 
the way — nine miles, until I asked myself, " What 
can Clun be like after this exodus ? Can there be 
a beast left within its walls ? " A question that 
was answered all in good time by the sight of 
numberless bullocks and sheep and lambs in all 
the meadows that encompass that quiet place. 
For in this part of Shropshire the animals of 
the field are as the sands of the seashore. 

The road lies in the valleys, one of which melts 
naturally into another all the way. First comes 
Aston-on-Clun, Clun being not only the quiet 
place, but also a mirthful, busy, inquisitive mill- 
stream with insinuating activities and a contented 
71 



Pasha and Harem 

puiT, that keeps one company all the way here- 
after^always busy and gay, and always talking 
to itself. Aston-on-Clun is notable for a good 
inn, with the unexpected style "The Kangaroo/' 
kept, and kept genially and well, by a host and 
hostess who, when they walk out together (if ever 
they do), must strike dismay into the local 
culverts. Then the road climbs a hill, below 
which, on the left, all among the greenest water 
meadows, is Clunbury, which is little more than 
a great farmyard to which a church and cottages 
have been added — and oh, so quiet under the 
sun ! 

In some ways Clunbury is the quietest (always 
excepting Clungunford, which I did not see), 
because it is off the road, and few must be the 
travellers who find it. Clunton is right in the 
road ; but before we enter it I must tell you of an 
embarrassment. For suddenly at the side of the 
road appeared the whitest, uprightest, boldest 
chanticleer you ever saw, tame and friendly, and no 
sooner had I done admiring him and passed on, 
than there sprang from nowhere eleven hens, 
white and splendid as himself, and forthwith the 
whole harem, pasha and all, set out to follow 
me into Clunton. I hastened my steps ; they 
hastened theirs : it began to be ridiculous. To 
enter one of the quietest places under the snn 
72 



The Necessaries of Life 

pursued, like the Pied Piper of Hamelin, by a 
crowd, not of children, but poultry, would be too 
absurd — apart altogether from a suggestion of 
theft. And so — much against my will, for there 
was a rare compliment here, a homage to which 
I am totally unused : to be followed with such 
affection by these dazzling aristoci'ats of the field 
— so I shoo'd them back, and passed through 
Clunton unattended, just the ordinary, insignifi- 
cant creature that I am, without retinue or the 
adoration of fowls ; and so on to the goal. 

Clun, I may say at once, has all the necessaries 
of life. It has a river, and a grey bridge, and a 
church half-way up the hill, and a castle high on 
its green mound, with noble stonework still 
remaining, and a hospital for old men, such as 
Anthony Trollope's Warden had in his care, each 
old man having to wear a cap and gown in Clun's 
few but important streets ; and several inns, of 
which, remembering good fortune at Aston-on- 
Clun, I made choice of " The Buffalo." And 
while the meal was preparing I sat on a seat in 
the sunny garden on a southern slope, and 
watched the smoke stealing up from the chimneys 
beyond the river below, and heard the sleepy 
sounds from the timber yard, and now and then 
a dog barked or a cock crew, and now and then 
someone crossed the bridge, not because he had 
73 



Clungunford Unvisited 

any business to do — oh dear, no! — but merely 
to get to the other side^ where it might be 
warmer ; and sitting there, I knew that the 
poet knew. It is the quietest place under the 
sun. 

Some day I shall go to Clun again. For the 
present I am the happier for having been there. 

" Clunton and Clunbury, 
Clungunford and Clun, 
Are the quietest places 
Under the sun." 

But what of Clungunford ? It may be the best 
of all. Some day I shall know. 



II 

"Talking of bathing," said the Captain, "I 

remember, years and years ago, when I was 

apprentice, we was lying at Sarawak. 

„ , J . Every mornina: me and Fred Wynn — 

Golden Age. .? & j 

he was the other apprentice — we had 
to go a matter of a mile or so through the woods 
to fetch water. We carried the beaker Chinese 
fashion, slung to a pole acrost our shoulders. 
Well, the first morning, as we drew up to the 
spring — ^^just a little basin of rock with the water 
running into it ; beautiful water it was, clear as 
74 



A Sarawak Memory 

crystal, and cold, cold as ice — as we drew up to 
the spring, there was a lot of Malay girls standing 
round. Girls maybe of fifteen or so — that's to 
say, about our own age — and fifteen's a woman 
in those hot parts. They'd been bathing, and 
one was in the water when we hove in sight, and 
as naked as my hand, all of 'em, except for a little 
shimmy thing. Fred was for stopping, but I said, 
' Come along, I mean to have a bathe.' Well, 
the girls stood by laughing among themselves, 
and just as I was — in a pair of trousers and 
a singlet — I jumped in, splash! Lord, it nearly 
cut me in two, it was that cold. You wouldn't 
believe how cold it was ! But we alwa3-s went 
in every morning, naked if we were alone, or just 
as we were if the girls were there. But, bless 
you, they wouldn't have minded any way. 

" After a time we got quite chummy : used to 
run races with them. I thought I could run in 
those days ; I was reckoned pretty fast. But, 
bless }'ou, those girls 'Id gather up their little 
shinnny things round their waists with one hand 
and run like a good-fellow. Me and Fred wasn't 
nowhere. 

" And afterwards we'd sling their water jugs 

on the pole along with our beaker, and two or 

three girls would hang on each end, and we'd 

carry 'em along to just outside the village, kiss 

75 



In a Spanish Jail 

'em good-bye all rounds and then make all sail for 
the ship. 

" Ah ! " added the Captain, " they were good 
times." 

Ill 

" Once/' said the detective, " I had to go to Spain 
to bring back an embezzler. Extradited, he was. 
While I was there I looked into the 
jail. There was an Englishman there, 
a sailor, ' Hullo, Jack,' I said, ' what are you 
here for .'' ' ' Why,' he said, ' they give me three 
years for blacking a policeman's eye.' ' No ? ' I said. 
' Straight ! ' says he. ' I'd had a drop too much 
one night, and the swine interfered, and I landed 
him a black eye. Nothing more, swelp me, and 
they give me three years for it.' 'Well, Jack,' 
I said, ' I'll see if a sovereign is any good (for 
I know what money can do out there), and if it 
is, I'll stand it.' I tried, but it wasn't no use. 
He was too good a man for them, I think. I went 
back the next day to tell him, and found him with 
a whip in his hand in chai'ge of a gang of Spanish 
prisoners. He was lashing away all he knew. 
'All right,' he said, when I told him; 'then I'll 
have to stay it out, I sup}wse.' And he went on 
lamming into his men. ' I reckon I'll get quit 
with this country by degrees,' he said." 
76 



A Staffordshire Cynic 

IV 

As a guide to old customs and old humours the 

domestic pottery of England is quite trustworthy, 

and I recommend anyone who visits 
The 
T, Brighton, and has time to call, to look 

Beerometer. , 

at the Willett Collection in the Museum 
there. Walking idly through it lately, I was 
attracted by a case entitled " Conviviality," given 
up to jugs and mugs with snatches of song upon 
them, drinking mottoes, and so forth, and a pretty 
sprinkling of topers and maltwoi'ms and tosspots. 
Among this welter of flaming noses and Imperial 
pints my eye was caught by the " Staffordshire 
Beerometer," which I went to the pains of copying. 
Here it is : — 

50. Drunk as a Lord. 

45. Drunk. 

40. Disguised in Liquor. 

35. As sober as a man ought to be. (Knows what he is 

about. ) 
30. Drunk without, but sober within. 
25. Fresh. (Worse for liquor. ) 
20. Market fresh. (Has had a drop. ) 
10. Sober as a Judge. 

5. Sober as I am now. (Have had 5 quarts among 
three of us.) 

o. Sober. 

5. Had nothing since breakfast. 
ID. Had nothing to-day. 

77 



The Nature of a Lord 

At a time when there is talk of reforming the 
Upper Chamber, it is pleasant to note the high- 
water (or should one say high-beer ?) mark of the 
drinker's ambition. Lords, say what you will, 
have their use. Of course it was, to a beer-eater 
(as the vivid modern slang has it) in a Stafford- 
shire pot-house the rosiest dream — to be drunk 
as a Lord. A Lord (whatever he may be now, 
and my own impression is that Lords will be 
Lords always) Avas then something so utterly 
splendid and ruthless : a gilt-edged creature who 
never walked, except from his horse or carriage 
into the best room of an inn, and back again ; 
who had his way with most men and all 
women ; who ate meat whenever he wanted it, 
and knew the King as a brother. That was a 
Lord. To be drunk like such a man as that ! 

At the other extreme should, but does not, 
come the Judge. The Apogee and the Nadir — 
the Lord and the Judge. But alas ! it is not so. 
The Staffordshire satirist knew better, and below 
that of the Judge are two degrees of sobriety — 
"Sober as I am now" and ''Sober." But the 
Beerometer is at least a hundred years old, and 
perhaps older. Times have changed. Judges to- 
day . . . 

I do not consider the Beerometer to be too 
intelligent. It misses scores of fine shades, the 
78 



" Market-Merry " 

nuances of inebriation. But for the audience for 
whom it was intended — the Staffordshire beer- 
eaters— it served. After all, to know his audience 
is the first essential of the rural wit. Perhaps the 
state at 20 degrees is the most ingenious — 
" market fresh " — though I prefer the commoner 
term (to me) of "market merry." I have always 
thought "market merry" one of the happiest of 
coulitryside coinages. It says everything, and says 
it so simply and gaily. I suppose that 30 degrees 
was what Terence Mulvaney had reached when 
he claimed to be properly sober in the head 
but " ondacently drunk about the legs." The 
condition at 35 degrees is veiy pleasantly stated ; 
but here I run risks of arousing the teetotalers, 
for the sentiment (with the mercury so high) 
cuts into their very existence. " As sober as a 
man ought to be" is their own motto — but at 
zero. To find it at 35 is the devil. 



V 

I MET her in Antwerp, in a saloon where Eng- 
lish and Scotch captains, mates, and engineers 
could hear their own language and 

— " y °" y _ clrink their native beverages — an odd 
Baroness. , ^ , , . „ 

place for a noblewoman, especially 

one so old and white, sprightly still, and with a 
79 



Baroness and Poet 

melancholy dignity that impressed me not a little, 
and also impressed some rather too high-spirited 
young people who would have made fun of her 
had she abated a jot of this birthright. 

It was two in the morning when she entered, 
with a large book under her arm and in her hand 
a bundle of tickets. The tickets were for a 
concert she was giving, and I bought one, 
although it was not till the next week, when I 
should be far away ; and then she told me she 
was a poet, and we sat down together at a little 
table, and she opened her book and read to me 
with fond maternal empressement a number of 
very indifferent sonnets copied there in her thin, 
angular, foreign hand. Interspersed among the 
sonnets were letters fi'om the great men to whom 
she had sent them : all Frenchmen, and all very 
polite to Madame la Baronne ; and a few 
cuttings, chiefly from small local Belgian papers, 
referring to her concert platform triumphs. She 
told me her history, too, but I forget it ; and a 
few audacious stories, but I forget those too. 
Her, however, I shall not forget, with her white 
head and her wistful air of decayed gentility, and 
the occasional hint of impropriety in her tired eye, 
and her manuscript book of weak verse and in- 
sincere compliments. I remember her because 
she was exceptional, but also because she was 
80 



The Beaulieu River 

simple ; and I know I made her happy because 
when she shuffled out to carry lier tickets to 
another saloon I kissed her finger-tips and gave 
her such a bow as never before or since have I 
called on my poor back to execute. 



VI 

It is in a sailing-boat that I would choose 

always to approach Beaulieu. It was thus the 

last time I saw her — the perfect day. 

We had come across from the Island 
River. 

under a fresh breeze, our ears filled 

with the rush of our progress, and the sibilant 

wake of the little dinghy tugging at its rope 

behind, and all the murmuring of sails and cordage 

amid light-hearted waves and wind. That in itself 

is good enough ; and then suddenly we had turned 

into the invisible Beaulieu River, as still as a pond, 

and had crept inland between fields and trees as 

silently as the flight of a distant bird save for the 

dinghy's contented chuckle. 

The sea for the great emotions — the high 

romance, the supreme cai*elessness ; but there is 

a minor romance about a river that in its way is 

equally fascinating. It is the difference between 

the high road and the footpath. If I had a yacht 

of my own, I would always be sailing up new 

F 8i 



Sailing up New Rivers 

rivers. To sail up a new river is almost more of 
an enterprise than to set one's prow towards the 
illimitable ocean. To be so near humanity, yet 
apart from it ; to thread one's way in strange 
landscapes ; to pass through towns one has never 
seen before, perhaps not stopping at all ; to see 
men and women on the banks for the first and 
last time at once — old men, lovers, children. I 
am thinking now of the great rivers that are 
navigable far inland ; but the Beaulieu River, 
though very short and very lonely, has its 
romance too. It leads inland ! 

A house or so at the mouth, a farm a little 
higher on the left, are all its signs of life until one 
comes to Buckler's Hard ; the rest is meadows, 
trees, and birds. Birds all the way ; for on the 
first boom that marks the entrance channel 
a shag was perched motionless with extended 
wings, like a fowl in heraldry. At one bend we 
surprised a hei'on, who flapped off cumbrously, 
old enough and wise enough to have trusted us ; 
curlews were playing their plaintive reed instru- 
ments almost without cessation ; plovers ran 
along the banks ; and once a swan bustled five 
grey cygnets into safety as we came into sight. 

By its birds and its verdant flatness the Beaulieu 
River reminded me not a little of the Broads ; but 
the Broads have nothing like Buckler's Hard. 
82 



The Secret of Buckler's Hard 

Buckler's Hard stands alone — quite the most 
curious village or hamlet I ever saw. It is more 
like a short section of a Georgian High Street 
than anything else — cut out of some quiet old 
market town like Lymington, near by, and set 
bodily on the top of a bank in a field by the side 
of a serene river. It begins suddenly and ends 
suddenly, climbing the slope indeed to the sky ; 
the backs of the houses that form the two sides 
of the street looking upon illimitable greenery, 
the fronts facing each other across a roadway thai 
is grass. With the exception of the first house 
on the right-hand side, all are about the same 
size ; but this one is more imposing than the 
othei's, and has a doorway that might have come 
from Bedford Row. I puzzled some time over 
Buckler's Hard, where we disembarked and 
loitered, and then the secret was given me by a 
tall fisherman busy with his nets on the bank. 
There was once a dockyard here, and the houses 
were the homes of the shipwrights, and the 
imposing one at the end was that of the chief 
officer. Nelson's Agame7nnon was built here, the 
fisherman told me . . . and as he spoke it Avas 
]iossible in the hot noon air to hear again the 
hammers and all the myriad noises of this noblest 
and bravest of industries. 



83 



The Beating of the Hoofs <:><:><:> 

T_T AVING occasion the other clay to post from 
Brecon to Abergavenny, I was particularly 
gratified to find that the landlady of the " Castle " 
had put at our disposal a carriage with rubber 
tyres and a pair of horses ; for I knew that we 
were thus destined to have the best of music all 
the way — the beating of the hoofs. And it was 
so. Silent or talking, thoughtful or observant of 
the mountains beneath their grey hoods, I was 
ever conscious of the sound of eight loyal and 
urgent iron-shod feet — not so fiercely as one 
hears it in the background of one of the move- 
ments of Raffs " Leonore " symphony, but a 
steady, soothing undertone. 

It is not the least of the advantages of 
the rubber tyre, that this pleasant melody 
is so clarified. It is perhaps the best thing 
that Leopold, King of the Belgians and 
Despot of the Congo, has done. Before rubber 
tyres came in, one had to go to the horse 
84 



The Glory of Motion 

tramways for it ; and I remember how agreeable, 
in consequence, were the long rides up the 
Hampstead Road and the Brecknock Road that 
I took when first I came to London. But the 
hoofs on the Welsh macadam were better than 
this, for they were steady and sure ; there were 
none of those sudden and disconcerting mishaps 
that are so common on London's greasy stones 
— those agonised slippings of the iron shoe with a 
catastrophic clamour to which not even the oldest 
Londoner's ear ever quite becomes accustomed. 

I will not name the absence of hoof-beats in so 
many words as a count in the indictment of the 
motor-car, because the indictment of the motor- 
car must be getting to be very teasing reading ; 
but I will say that the car has certainly a very 
regrettable immunity from hoof-beats, and has 
nothing for the ear in their place. For the ear 
nothing : but I suppose that the increased speed 
that the petrol offers is, for most, sufficient 
compensation. Not, howevei', for me, who have 
an old-fashioned notion that for the high road, as 
opposed to a track or rails, the speed that horses 
may attain is speed enough. The glory of motion 
-as celebrated by De Quincey is as much of that 
glory as most of us sinners are entitled to. I 
have an uneasy feeling that I have not earned the 
right to dash along at twenty-five to thirty-five 
8S 



The Speed of Horses 

miles an hour, — that we ought not to go faster 
than the horse, — although I should be puzzled to 
say exactly what it was I had left undone that 
would qualify me to do so. But the feeling is 
there, none the less, and it is none the weaker 
for being vague. 

What I sometimes wonder is, would De 
Quincey, were he able to sit beside Mr. 
Jarrott, or that terrible Belgian, Jenatzy, 
have an increased sense of speed, or would he 
still pin his faith to horses to convey most pro- 
foundly the impression of velocitous travel ? 
Because it is not, of course, always the fastest 
thing that most suggests fastness. A moderately 
hasty omnibus, for example, rolling down White- 
hall, would seem to be moving with a greater 
impetus than the hansom that overtook it : and I 
can conceive it possible that a runaway stage coach, 
going at only fifteen miles an hour, might have a 
far more impressive onset than a motor-car going 
at forty miles an hour, under perfect control. 
If so, that would justify De Quincey. 

But the comparison would be fair only if the 
observer were horse-blind. It would be the horse 
that would really convey the impression of speed ; 
not the speed itself. The speed of a motor-car, 
even at forty miles an hour, one would not notice 
very vividly unless one were in its wind, so to 
86 



The Noblest Animal 

speak ; but the speed of four horses plunging 
along, out of conti'ol, with a coach of people 
behind them, would seem to be terrific, because 
the eye would be trebly fed : fed with the actual 
quickness of the vehicle, so much quicker than 
usual ; fed with the alarm of the passengers ; but 
most of all fed with the fury and appalling 
madness of energy of the animals themselves, 
all so frantic and undisciplined. I have not seen 
many runaway horses, but all that I have seen 
filled me with a tightening alarm that I can still 
recall with the utmost vividness. 

I doubt if a sculptor or painter, challenged to 
represent the most sublimely terrifying thing that 
human beings can meet, could do better than to 
mould or depict a frenzied horse. I believe that 
the horse is not only the noblest animal we know, 
but in its rage the most terrible. It is customary 
to say that the lion is the noblest creature, but 
the lion, for all his grandeur, has a furtive look ; 
and the tiger even more so ; while the elephant, 
for all his size, has just that touch of the grotesque 
which is fatal. But the horse is beautiful, and 
noble too. And it is all to his advantage as a 
symbol of terror that he is normally the kindly 
friend of man, in perfect subjection, and that his 
frenzy is an aberration. The contrast intensifies 
the emotion. 

87 



The Incomplete Philippian 

I should, however, be conveying a very false 
impression if these remarks upon the noble animal 
led anyone to suppose that I am either a horse- 
man or even comfortable in a horse's presence. 
Quite the reverse. I am one to whom the horse 
is an unknown and perilous qxiantity. I have for 
horses and dogs an affection that most people 
seem to keep for their fellow-men ; but although 
with dogs I am at home, I am totally at a loss 
to know how to deal with the larger creature. A 
horse's eye disquiets me : it has an expression 
of alarm that may at any moment be translated 
into action. I like to know where an animal is 
looking, and these bright, startled, liquid con- 
vexities never tell me. 

I have been on a horse's back, it is true. I 
once hired a horse and rode it over the South 
Downs for a fortnight ; but I never feel that 
there is true rapport between a horse and 
myself. I began too late. To understand horses 
^nd be understood by horses, one must be brought 
up with them. But for the great centaurs — the 
giants of the saddle — no one can have more 
admiration than I : a little, perhaps, because 
they are so foreign, almost so astral, a people. 
I don't mean jockeys, who are mere riding auto- 
mata without personalities; I mean the great 
hunting men with the noble and resonant names, 
88 



The Great Centaurs 

-^and of all of whom " chai*acteristic anecdotes " 
(brave words ! ) are told, — the men celebrated by 
the glowing pen of "Nimrod " : Tom Assheton- 
Smith, and Hugo Meynell, and Sir Bellingham 
Graham, and Tom Sebright, and Mr. Osbaldeston, 
and Jack Musters, and John Mytton, and John 
Warde of Squerries. 

When one reads the lives of the ordinary great 
men — statesmen, poets, divines, painters, and 
so forth — one can to a considerable extent put 
oneself in their place : the life described, although 
carried out to a high power, is still more or less 
one's own, is recognisable. But to read "Nimrod's" 
genei'ous and spirited pages — to read of these 
mighty and wonderful horseinen — is (with me) 
to be transported to a kind of fairyland to which 
I am never likely really to penetrate, and where, 
if I did, I should be an alien and ashamed. That 
is why I think ^^Nimrod" one of the greatest of 
writers — because he takes me into an unattain- 
able world and keeps me enchanted. 

" When Jack Shirley was whipper-in to Mr. 
Smith, he was riding an old horse called Gadsby 
(not much the better for having been many years 
ridden by his master) over one of the worst fields 
in Leicestershire for a blown horse — between 
Tilton and Somerby — abounding with large ant- 
hills and deep, holding furrows. The old horse 
was going along at a good slapping pace, with 



Captain Bridges 

his head quite loose, and downhill at the time, 
whilst Jack was in the act of putting a lash to 
his whip, having a large open clasp knife between 
/lis teeth at the time ! " 

That is the kind of thing that " Nimrod " tells, 
and what could be more different from the ordinary 
routine of a literary man ! 

Or take Captain Bridges of the Hambledon 
Hunt :— 

" Being out one day with the foxhounds, he 
saw two gentlemen parleying with a farmer in a 
gateway, who refused to let them pass through it. 
The Captain rode up to them, and asked what 
was the matter. ' Why,' said one of the gentle- 
men, ' this farmer says he will murder the first 
man who attempts to go into his field.' ' Does 
he?' said the Captain; ^ then here goes, life 
for life,' and immediately charged him. The 
fellow aimed a desperate blow at his head with 
a very heavy stick, which, in spite of the velvet 
cap, would have felled him to the ground, if he 
had not had the good fortune to have avoided 
it ; when, taking to his heels, the coward fled, 
with the Captain after him, and absolutely crept 
into a large covered drain to avoid him. ' Who- 
whoop ! ' said the Captain, ' I've run him to 
ground, by G-d ! ' " 

"Nimrod" tells us, later, in proof of the Captain's 
humour, that the last time he saw him out he 
told him he had been severely attacked by gout 
90 



John Mytton 

in the early morning, but, "determined to hunt," 
he had taken two strong calomel pills and sixty 
drops of colchicum ; on the top of this he had 
put a glass of hot gin and water on the road to 
covert, " to keep things in their place." There's a 
captain for you ! It was of this gallant sportsman, 
by the way, that "Nimrod" uses the admirably 
descriptive phrase : " the nightingale had oftener 
heard him than he had the nightingale." 

A tired journalist, worn with town, looking 
out for a hero, an exemplar — could he do better 
than choose Captain Bridges ? Yet how impos- 
sible ! 

But of the harum-scarum hunting man Mytton 
is the blazing example. Even less like the daily 
routine of a journalist and literary hack was the 
career of this inspired rake-hell, who thought so 
little of money that he could be traced in his 
morning walks by dropped bundles of banknotes ; 
who fought dogs with his teeth, on equal terms, 
and won ; who drank six bottles of port daily, the 
first while shaving ; who spent £10,000 in getting 
into Parliament, and occupied his seat only half 
an hour ; who consented to go to Oxford only on 
condition that he was never asked to open a book ; 
who jumped toll-gates in his gig ; who owned and 
hunted two packs, and once came in at the death, 
after many hours' riding, with three broken ribs ; 
91 



English Wild Oats 

who set a spring trap for his chaplain one Sunday 
morning, and, having caught him, thought the 
frolic amply atoned for by a bottle of Madeira ; 
who thrashed all who offended him, and afterwards 
gave them a guinea ; and who, when some kind 
of compromise was offered him by his lawyer 
which would save an estate from the hammer and 
produce him an income of <£6000 a year, remarked, 
" I wouldn't give a damn to live on £6000 a 
year." Surely if unlikelihood of imitation is a 
measure of admiration (as it is), here is a hero 
indeed for a quill-driver who must keep office 
hours ! 

Ever since I can remember I have been 
fascinated by the life of John Mytton, although 
there is no real pleasure to be taken in it. The 
spectacle of the riotous spendthrift, the man 
whose only enemy is himself, as we say, is melan- 
choly enough, however we consider it. Why not, 
then, leave poor My tton's ghost unvexed t Because, 
I would say, he was great. In his way he was 
among the giants. England has produced many 
madcaps, many wastrels of genius : to go the pace 
recklessly, to sow wild oats, seeming to be more 
easy with our youth than with those of any nation, 
the result probably of security and wealth and the 
absence of that enforced military service which 
reminds the young Continental so forcibly that he 
92 



A Furious Career 

is but a cog in a great machine, together with 
a certain tendency in the national character 
(observed once very acutely by Falstaff) to overdo 
our amusements. 

It is not so long since Mytton died : ISS-i — the 
same year in which died Charles Lamb. He was 
born in the year that saw Lamb contributing 
poems to Coleridge's first volume, 1796, and it is 
not uninteresting to reflect how different were the 
two lives that were simultaneously to pass in 
London and at Halston, Mytton's home in Shrop- 
shire. Mytton's father died when his son was 
two, and probably the boy's ruin was a result, for 
his mother was fond to folly, and no one opposed 
his will. He went to Westminster and Harrow, 
being expelled from both, and came of age to 
£60,000 in ready money and an income of £10,000. 
For a short time he was a cornet in the 7th Hussars, 
but on his iTiajority he resigned, and took to 
country pursuits. It was in 1819 that he brought 
himself to sit in Parliament for half an hour ; in 
1820 came the dissolution, and he legislated no 
more. He married twice — his first wife died, and 
his second left him. His hounds, his racehorses^ 
his cellars, his coverts, and his friends all did their 
work, and by 1830 he was a debtor in hiding in 
Calais. In 1834 he was dead of delirium tremens 
in the King's Bench Prison. He was buried in 
93 



'• Nimrod's " Tribute 

the private chapel of his old home, and his funeral 
was attended by half Shropshire, for the country- 
people idolised him. His life was written by his 
friend " Nimrod," who also had come upon disaster, 
although not so luridly, and was also a refugee at 
Calais. It is a curious, warm-hearted, tolerant 
book, unique in the language — the kindest 
biography that a rake-hell ever had, and a 
wonderful memorial of the three-bottle days that 
are past. Now and then the gallant " Nimrod " 
sweats something very like blood in his efforts to 
palliate his friend's enormities, but he almost 
succeeds. 

Mytton, looked at from one point of view, was 
just a criminal detrimental, wickedly selfish, 
shamelessly wasteful. That is true enough. 
But he rose to such heights in this wastefulness, 
and he gave himself to folly with such generous 
abandon, that he compels admiration. His follies, 
indeed, were (as often happens) largely runaway 
virtues. Bravery in the hands of a young fool 
quickly becomes recklessness ; generosity turns 
to extravagance ; conviviality degenerates into 
drunkenness. Mytton had none of the petty 
vices, the • dirty little mean self-protective 
thoughts that seem to be consistent with the 
highest reputations. He was open and without 
arriere pensie. Having well thrashed an opponent, 
94 



Aiken's Aquatints 

he gave him (as I have said) a guinea. With 
more judgment he would have been a great 
country gentleman. Instead, he is perhaps the 
biggest madcap fool in English history. 

He was certainly the only one whose life was 
published with aquatints by Aiken and Rawlins. 
Those aquatints — how well I remember them ! 
I saw the book first — where, I forget now — when 
I was quite a child, and some of the pictures 
burned their way into my memory. John Mytton 
returning from Doncaster races in a chaise with 
the windows open — I should remember that 
iiightpiece for evei", even if in counting his 
winnings he was not amused to see the wind catch 
the banknotes and whirl them into the void. 
John Mytton riding his bear into the drawing- 
room, to the consternation of his guests. Who 
that first saw that picture in childhood could 
ever forget it } Mytton was very amusing Mith 
this bear, and once, after making George 
Underbill, the horse-dealer, exceedingly di'unk, 
he put him to bed with it and two bulldogs. 
(He had an inexhaustibly pretty fancy.) John 
Mytton forcing the leader of his tandem to jump 
a gate, but being foiled by the wheeler. John 
Mytton shooting ducks on the ice under the 
moon, crawling after them in nothing but his 
night-shirt, gun in hand. John Mytton setting 
95 



"Never upset in a Gig?" 

this same night-shirty or another, on fire to cure 
the hiccoughs. 

And lastly, the spirited picture of the famous 
incident of the guest and the gig, by which, in 
many persons' minds, Mytton lives. " Was you 
ever much hurt of being upset in a gig ? " asks 
the genial John of a friend whom he is driving 
in one of those vehicles. "No, thank God," 
says the unsuspecting man, forgetting Avith whom 
he had to deal, "for I never was upset in one." 
" What," replied Mytton, " never upset in a gig ? 
What a damned slow fellow you must have been 
all your life!" and, "running his near wheel up 
the bank, over they both went." The story 
contains John Mytton's greatness. The superb 
foolhardiness of it; the excellent bonhomie of it; 
the swiftness of the catastrophe, impulse and 
action being one ; the recklessness not only of 
his own life, but his friend's, for the prosperity 
of the joke : — these would be impossible to a 
small man. 

Had Mytton been a soldier, with such a disre- 
gard of danger and rapidity of thought and deed, 
his monument might be at this moment in St. 
Paul's Cathedral and his statue in Trafalgar Square 
— and he no difierent in character. But fate 
designed that he should squander his gifts and do 
no one the faintest service. More, it was admitted 
96 



A Nut for Optimists 

by his biographei* that Mytton was drunk for seven 
years on end, a term extended to twelve years by 
another witness. There is here a waste of power 
and a perversion of fine, generous instincts that 
I leave to Dr. Pangloss and other apologists for 
this universe to explain away. 



97 



Our Gardeners and Luck of the Woods 

T SAY "our gardeners/' but it is a misnomer. 
I believe that, strictly speaking, we have 
never had a gardener at all. We have had only 
substitutes, understudies, " supplies." A gardener, 
I am told, before you can rightly call him " your 
gardener, " must be in your service only ; whereas 
our gardeners have been independent men whom 
gold has for a while bribed into spending a few 
of their hours each week on our soil, and that 
only irregularly, and who have instantly thrown us 
over when anything better offered. 

However, let it pass. Our gardeners they 
shall be called. 

We have had so many that I forget their 
order ; but let us begin with Banks. Banks was 
an old, cheery man with a short white beard — a 
widower, who lived all alone in a tiny cottage 
that might have been inhabited by a witch in a 
fairy tale. Once I went to see him there — when 



The Verb "to Brish" 

he was ill with jaunders (as he called them), and 
found him in bed as yellow as a dandelion. You 
have no idea how funny an old yellow gardener 
in bed can look. Banks was a good workman, 
and a very kindly personage to have about the 
place, and he would have become our real 
gardener, I think, had it not been for an act of 
folly on his own part which removed him from 
our neighbourhood for ever. His exit was 
dramatic, for one morning he was sent into the 
village to buy some cord, and he was not heard of 
again for six weeks, and then he was in a distant 
town, with his only son, and was not in his right 
mind. And when the truth came out the case 
was harder than ever. To think that Cupid 
should have had an eye to that odd little old 
man ! But he had, and the odd little old man 
fell — rather heavily — and he was seen no more. 
By Heaven's mercy the baby died. 

That was the end of Banks, and no more did 
he brighten our gaixlen with his merry old face 
and delight our ears with his odd words, of which 
the verb " to brish " was by no means the last — 
to brish being something midway between really 
cutting a hedge and just looking at it. 

After Banks came, I think, Rateman — or was it 
Thrupp ? No, Rateman. Rateman was younger 
and more energetic than Banks, but not so good. 
99 

LOfC 



Rateman and Banks 

He dashed at his work, and made vast superficial 
differences to the place ; but it was not thorough 
work. He never trenched two spits deep in his 
life, and never will ; whereas Banks Avould not 
have slept if he had done less where it was 
needed. Rateman wanted to cut down trees and 
move mountains, while Banks was content to 
help Nature do her gentle, gradual will. Another 
difference between Rateman and Banks was that 
whereas Banks always had money, Rateman 
always wanted it. I have borrowed money from 
Banks, but Rateman still owes me two shillings. 
It was immediately after acquiring that sum that 
he left. 

Peters came next. Peters was by profession a 
poacher, but he affected gardening as a blind to 
the police. He yawned most of the day from 
want of sleep, and yet worked too, and not at all 
badly. Peters had the artistic temperament, and 
our garden, in which are no vegetables — nothing 
but flowers and shrubs and odd levels and much 
stonework — pleased him and drew out his fancy. 
We lost Peters only because the iron hand of 
circumstances caused him to move. 

Then came our greatest failure — a decrepit old 
man with the horrible name of Crossbones. 
Those other mea had all done something, even if 
it were not what we wanted done ; but Crossbones 

lOO 



Crossbones and Thrupp 

did nothing but patient and ineffectual hoeing. 
He had a stock phrase with which to meet all 
suggestions : " I've never done that in gennle- 
men's places, " his illusion being that he had 
spent a protracted lifetime as the honoured 
gardener of this and that aristocrat. For all I 
know to the contrary, he may have done so ; but 
he gave us none of the benefit of his career. As 
the leisurely disturber of the topmost soil of 
a "gennleman's place" he was perfection; but 
beyond that he was useless. He quickly went. 

Thrupp, who succeeded, plunged us into 
difficulties, as you will see. Thrupp was a strong 
man of powerful will, with a contempt for his 
employers. No matter what he was told, he did 
only what he thought right. For he looked upon 
himself as one who could make no mistake, and 
his standard was the wonderful plot of land 
behind his own cottage, of whose fruitfulness and 
docility he was never tired of telling us. There 
was nothing this garden did not bring forth — its 
soil was everything it should be, short of 
auriferous. Thrupp took no stock in flowers, and 
at last, by dangling before our eyes a promise of 
some such fecundity as his own being persuaded 
by his gifted hands to grace a piece of our land, 
he induced us to allow him to turn half the 
orchard into a vegetable patch. But nothing was 

lOI 



A Terrified Employer 

ever grown there but crowsfoot — plenty of it — 
and nettles that sting most infernally when one 
goes to pick up walnuts and apples. I knew in 
my heart that this would be so ; but Thrupp was 
master. How he came to leave us we have no 
real knowledge ; but I am sure he never received 
notice, because I am sure we should never have 
had the courage to give it — having no telephone. 
But vanish he did^ and very characteristically ; and 
since we did not know whether he had left or 
not, and as we were terrified by what might 
happen if we engaged another man and Thrupp 
was only resting, we were for several weeks 
without any help at all. I sent out scouts to 
learn what he was doing, but could get no real 
information. They could not definitely report 
that he was in another situation. I wrote him 
postcards, but he did not answer. I would have 
called but for want of courage and his eye. . . . 
That cold eye. . . . 

- I forget who came next, but there Avere several 
stop-gaps before Coward appeared, one of whom, 
I remember, advised me to pay a shilling or two 
more the next time I bought a spade ; and another 
carefully pulled up some scores of cherished 
seedlings under the impression that they were 
weeds. And then the millennium dawned ; for, 
taking everything into consideration, Coward (who 

102 



The Pen runs away 

is still with us) is the most successful man we have 
had, for he works well, obeys instructions, dis- 
tinguishes between weeds and seedlings, is willing 
to do anything else if need be, has no dignity to 
incommode him, and does not talk unless he is 
spoken to. Also he is without theories, and 
breeds rather good ducks. His drawback is a 
fondness for golf (he is a local champion), which 
deprives us of his services far too often. When 
he is most wanted here, he is on the links. 

One peculiarity of Coward's is perhaps worth 
mentioning. Although very strong, he has the 
thinnest arms I ever saw on anyone but a jn-emiere 
danseuse — thinner even than hers, maybe, for I sus- 
pect that much of the thinness of Genee's arms, 
for example, is illusory, proceeding from the con- 
trast between them and her exceedingly sturdy 
legs. Such legs ! Have you ever seen Genee ? Half 
fairy, half kitten, and wholly adorable. But we 
are talking about gardeners. Coward's arms, as 
I say, for all his power, are thin as hop-poles. But 
his most interesting characteristic is his wayside 
fortune — he has what I will call the luck of the 
woods. If anything curious or untoward is afoot. 
Coward is there ; if vara aves are seen by anyone, 
the eyes are Coward's. 

The other Sunday, for example, I had an 
appointment with him ; and as it was Sunday 
103 



The Woodcock 

afternoon, he had on his best clothes, and I 
noticed that not only his light grey suit, but 
also his dark grey overcoat, were those which 
I had given him a few months ago, and once 
again I wondered why one can ever be so foolish 
as to give away such valuable and irreplaceable 
things as old clothes. 

Well, we talked for some time — an hour — on 
the matter in hand, and then he turned to go 
(he lives two miles away, across the common), 
but swinging round again, he remarked casually, 
" I picked up a woodcock as I came along." 
" Yes," I said tentatively, expecting that he was 
proposing to hand it to me as an offering to the 
table, and wondering what it had died of 
" Rather a good one," he added, and, throwing 
open his coat — my coat — revealed the head and 
three inches of bill of a large woodcock pro- 
truding from an inside pocket : to my astonishment 
intensely alive. Its sparkling black eyes looked 
at me with a steady inquisitiveness, but no fear. 
Coward pulled it forth, quite naturally and easily, 
as if live Avoodcocks were his normal cargo, and 
began to stroke its head as affectionately and gently 
as if the soul of his grandam had really taken up 
its habitation therein ; and the bird accepted the 
attention quietly and, to all appearance, happily. 
I was then told that it had a broken wing ; was 
104 



A Birthright 

probably shot the day before ; and was now on 
its way to the keeper's. The bird was then 
put back into the pocket — my pocket — again, 
and its captor walked off, leaving me all amused 
perplexity. 

I was not only perplexed and amused ; I was 
sad too. I had a sense of failure. For a large 
part of the force of this anecdote is that that 
overcoat was no longer mine. So long as I 
owned it and wore it, nothing ever got into its 
pockets but such dull and normal articles as pipes 
and pouches and gloves. But no sooner had 
I given it away than one of the shyest and 
strongest of British birds found its way there 
quite naturally. 

The reason is, of course, not only that the 
coat had ceased to be mine, but that I had 
given it to a man eminent among those who 
have the luck of the woods. Such luck cannot 
be acquired ; you have it or you have it not, like 
the ars poelica or a caul. No matter how much 
you want it, you cannot get it. A man who has 
it not may spend his whole life in the country 
and never even come across a blind-worm ; a man 
who has it may live all his life in Bloomsbur\', 
and one day visiting Epping Forest find a 
cuckoo's egg in a robin's nest. 

I don't say I am totally without it, because 
105 



Shadow without Substance 

I was once with a man who has it strongly, and 
saw a pigeon attacked in mid-air by a hen-harrier 
and killed ; and it fell near us, and turned out 
to be a carrier pigeon Avith a message under its 
wing and a registered number, which led to an 
interesting correspondence. This shows that 
I am not wholly destitute of such luck, because 
if I were I should not have been walking with 
that man. But I do not possess more than a 
glimmering, although I once found a black snake 
wriggling across Great Portland Street at eleven 
o'clock on a Sunday night, and killed it with 
a ground ash ; and although one Sunday morning 
three years ago I was confronted suddenly by 
a young owl on a juniper bush, and it allowed 
me to take it in my arms. But these experiences 
are exceptions, proving no rule. The man who 
has the luck of the woods always has it, like my 
gardener friend, to whom gravitate, by a kind 
of natural law, all creatures in distress, and 
before whose eyes are unfolded the most inter- 
esting dramas that the English fauna can play. 
Such men have the key of the countryside. 

As I say, we had been talking for an hour 
before he showed me his treasure-trove. Here 
came out the difference between us — between 
a man who has the luck of the woods and a 
man who has it not ; because, had I chanced on 
io6 



The Enviable Men 

a woodcock with a broken Aving, I should in the 
first place never have thought of packing it in my 
pocketj and, in the second place, it would have 
been the first thing I should have spoken of on 
meeting an acquaintance. 

Those who possess the luck of the woods, the 
key of the countryside, are very enviable. To 
me they are more enviable than any other men 
— more enviable even than conjurers. 



107 



Conjurer and Confederate <=^ o -^ 

I. THE CONJURER 

\ MBITION takes men very differently. This 
would enter Parliament, and That would have 
a play accepted at the Court ; This would reach 
the North Pole^ and That would live at Chisle- 
hurst ; while a fifth would be happy if only he 
had a motor-car. Speaking for myself, my am- 
bition has always been to have a conjurer perform 
under my own roof, and it has just happened. 
I obtained him from the Stores. 

No one, I suppose, will be taken in by the 
statement that I was engaging this wizard for the 
children ; it was really for myself. Much as the 
children enjoyed his tricks and his banter (so 
fascinating, as one of his testimonials said, to the 

family of the Countess of ), it was I who 

enjoyed him most, because I helped him with his 

preparations ; saw him unpack his wonderful bags 

and lay the sacred paraphernalia on the table ; 

io8 



The Three Desired Tricks 

procured for him such articles as he required ; and 
so forth. I have never been so near magic before. 
Like all great men when one comes closely in 
touch with them, he was quite human, quite 
like ourselves : so much so, indeed, that in addi- 
tion to his fee he wanted his cab fare both ways. 
It is very human to want things both ways. 

I have been wondering how long it would take 
me to learn to be a conjurer, and if it is not too 
late to begin. I used to meditate a course of 
billiard lessons from one of the great players, but 
I gave that up long ago. I realised that a man 
who wants to play billiards must have no other 
ambition. Billiards is all. But one might 
surely in the course of a winter acquire some- 
thing more than the rudiments of conjuring, and 
I would pay a guinea a lesson with pleasure. I 
don't want to be a finished conjurer. I merely 
want to do three tricks with reasonable dexterity. 
Of course, if one can do three tricks one can do 
thirty, but it is three and three only I have in 
mind. (1)1 want to borrow a watch and put it 
in a pestle and mortar and grind it to powder, 
and then fire a pistol at a loaf of bread and find 
the watch whole again in the midst of the crumb. 
(2) I want to borrow a tall hat and throw in flour, 
and break eggs into it and stir it all up, and hold 
it over a spirit lamp for a second, and then pro- 
109 



Consummation 

duce a beautiful warm cake. (3) I want to find 
hens' eggs in old men's beards and little girls' 
hair. Tricks with cards and money and so forth 
I don't mind about, because I would always I'ather 
see them done than do Lhem — there is such 
fascination in the clean, swiit movements of the 
conjurer with cards, his perfect mastery of his 
fingers, the supple beauty of his hands. And 
tricks with machinery I would gladly forego. 

My conjurer's most popular trick was of course 
that which calls upon the co-operation of a rabbit. 
1 wrote to him in advance to insist on this. No 
man who at a children's party produces a live 
rabbit, particularly when it is very small and 
kicking and also black and white, is making a 
mistake. No matter what has gone before, this 
apparition will seal his popularity. The end 
crowns the work (as I could say in Latin if I liked). 
It was not only to the children that this trick was 
welcome, but to an elderly literary friend of 
mine, with whom I have collaborated more than 
once, and into whose life I hoped to get a little 
brightness by inducing him to bring the tall hat 
which the wizard should borrow. The thought 
filled him with excitement. It was bringing radi- 
ance indeed into his life to know that this old hat, 
which had done nothing more I'omantic than keep 
his head warm all these years, was to be used for 
no 



The Perfect Life 

magical purposes^ and have a real rabbit extracted 
from it. 

As with pensive melancholy I watched the 
conjurer packing up, he told me that he had two 
more performances that evening, and had been in 
constant request (I think I give his exact words) 
all through the winter months. What a life ! I 
can think of nothing more pleasant than to live 
thusj continually mystifying fresh groups of people 
— with cab fares both ways and a satisfactory fee : 
to be for ever in the winter months extracting 
eggs from old gentlemen's beards and little girls' 
hair, passing cards right through one's body, 
catching half-crowns in the air, finding a thousand 
and one things in tall hats. This is to live indeed, 
to say nothing of the additional rapture of having 
a fund of facetiee that not only ordinary children 
but the offspring of countesses find irresistible. 

And in the summer months what does he do } 
Probably he is thinking out new tricks, squander- 
ing his winter wealth (the very reverse of the bee), 
catchins; rabbits. 



n. THE CONFEDERATE 

" My mother h«s told me of fields, meadows, 
and hedges ; but I have never seen them. She 
has told me also of guns, and dogs, and ferrets, 
III 



" 1 mean to keep small " 

and all the perils of the warren life ; but of these 
I know nothing too. It is very unlikely that 1 
ever shall ; for I am in love with my art, and 
will not abandon it until I must. My mother 
says I must before very long, because I am 
growing so fast ; but I mean to keep small. I 
shall eat very little ; I eat hardly anything now. 
I couldn't bear to change this wonderful career. 

" This is my second winter, and I go into his 
pocket quite easily still. Why should everyone 
grow big ? There are dwarf men ; why not dwarf 
rabbits ? 

" My mother says that when I am too big I 
shall just live in a hutch all day and see no one. 
But I would not do that ; I would die sooner. 
It is very easy to die if you want to. 

" What sort of a life do you think I should 
have if I could not help my master, and kneiv that 
ciHuther was helping him instead ? That would be 
the terrible part. Once it happened to me, when 
I was ill and my brother went to a party for me. 
I suffered agonies all the evening. I seemed to 
hear the children laughing, and see them all 
open-mouthed with amazement and rapture when 
he was pulled kicking out of the empty hat. It was 
terrible. I lay there sobbing arid biting my claws. 
But it was all right when he came back, for I 
heard my master saying to his wife that Tommy 

112 



"I hear them laugh all the time" 

(that is my brother's name) was a fool. " Too 
heavy, too," he added, and then he brought me, 
with his own hands, a new crisp lettuce to see if 
I could eat again, and I ate it all, and have never 
been ill since. 

" I daresay if I was an ordinary stage conjurer's 
rabbit I could bear old age better. But we do 
not do that, we go to children's parties. There 
is all the difference in the world. 

" You have no idea how many children I see. 
And to hear them laugh ; that is the best ! I 
hear them laugh all the time, but I see them only 
for a minute or two. You must understand that 
until my trick comes on — and it is usually a late 
one — I lie all comfortable, although quivering 
with excitement, in my basket. I can't see, but 
I can hear everything. Of course I know exactly 
what is happening, although I can't see it. I 
know the order of the tricks perfectly. Now he's 
catching money in the air, I say to myself. Now 
he's finding an egg in a little girl's hair. Now 
he's passing cards through his body ; and so on. 
And then comes the great moment when I hear 
him say, 'For my next trick I shall require the 
loan of a hat. Can anyone oblige me with a tall 
hat.'' As this is a rather messy trick, I don't care 
to use my own.' They always laugh at that ; but 
they little think what those words are meaning 
H 113 



** Very odd things in your Hat " 

to a small black rabbit in a basket, and how my 
heart is beating. 

" Then the trick begins : first my master takes 
out of the hat a great bunch of flags, then heaps 
of flowers, then Japanese lanterns, and then a 
wig. I must not tell you how this is done, but 
I know ; and I must not tell you how or when I 
am put into the hat, because that might lead you 
to think less of my master's magic ; but after the 
wig has been taken out and they are all laughing, 
there is a moment . . . Then my heart seems to 
stand quite still. When I come to myself I hear 
my master say, ' Excuse me, sir, but you carry 
very odd things in your hat. I thought the wig 
was the last of them ; but here is one more.' I 
cannot see the children, but I know exactly how 
they are looking while he says this — all leaning 
forward, with their mouths open and their eyes 
so bright. And then my master takes hold of 
my ears, pulls me up with a swift movement 
which hurts a little, but I don't mind (mind !), 
and waves me in the air. How I kick, how they 
scream with delight ! ' Oh, the little darling ! ' 
they cry. ' Oh, the sweet ! ' ' The pet ! ' 

" How coukl I give this up ? What has life for 
me without my art .^ 

" Sometimes when we are performing in a small 
house where there is no platform, the little girls 
114 



" A good deal squeezed " 

make a rush for me and seize me from my master 
and hug me and kiss me. I have been a good 
deal squeezed now and then ; but I know it is 
because I have done well. If I had not kicked 
so bravely they would not be so eager to hold me 
and love me. It is homage to art. But my 
master soon takes me from them and puts me in 
my basket again. I am afraid he has rather a 
jealous disposition." 



115 



Sister Lucie Vinken <^ ^^ -^ o 

r~^ HENT has many treasures^ first of which I 
^"'^ suppose is that chapel at St. Bavo's which 
holds enshrined " The Adoration of the Lamb/' 
by Jan and Hubert Van Eyck ; but looking back 
on it I remember with most vividness not its 
paintings or its churches, not its canals or its 
Hotel de Ville, not its streets or its ruined castle, 
but Sister Lucie Vinken of the Convent of St. 
Joseph in the Petit Beguinage Notre Dame. 

We came to her by a kind of accident, — if 
accident there be, as I like to question. It was 
the Grand Beguinage that we had set out to see, 
in one of those Belgian fiacres which, Avhether 
you will or not, force you back to an angle of 
insolent disdain. But the driver had his own 
opinion, and before we knew it we were within 
the gates of the older and smaller but far more 
adjacent retreat, and I have since learned that in 
other respects also we did well, for the Grand 
ii6 



All sheer Peter De Hooch 

Beguinage outside the city, although very fasci- 
nating in its self-contained perfection, with its 
surrounding wall and little streets and squares 
and moats and bridges — by all accounts the ideal 
home for a children's commonwealth — is yet new, 
dating but from the eighteen-seventies, whereas 
the Petit Beguinage is untouched since the 
eighteenth century, and some of it is earlier still ; 
and to go to Ghent to see a new building is as 
absurd as to go to Oxford to see a Board school. 

The driver having stopped before a door in the 
wall with a little shrine above it, the door opened 
and Sister Lucie Vinken straightway became our 
hostess. She stood radiating welcome in a court- 
yard such as her countryman Peter De Hooch 
(for Sister Lucie Vinken is Dutch) would have 
painted, and drew us in. There could be no 
holding back, however militantly Protestant one's 
feelings might be, for Sister Lucie Vinken's 
Church does not often make a mistake, and she 
was not appointed to this post without reason — 
so charming her smile, so rosy her placid round 
Dutch face, so white her head-dress, and so en- 
gagingly gentle and soothing her voice. No. 233 
is the number of Sister Lucie Vinken's house 
— all sheer Peter De Hooch too — with little 
bright red bricks, and white frames to the 
windows, and cool white walls and tiny dormers. 

IT7 



Lucie's Misunderstanding 

The others are like it, surrounding their great 
courtyard^ which has a meadow in the midst to 
which have strayed from their frames, to keep 
Peter De Hooch in countenance these late days, 
half a dozen of Albert Cuyp's cows. At one end 
is the church, and close by is the Convent of St. 
Joseph, where Sister Lucie Vinken dwells and 
receives the curious. Long may she do so ! 

Sister Lucie Vinken led us first into the re- 
fectory, where each religiense has a little cupboard 
with her own table necessaries in it, and a sliding 
slab on which to place them for all meals but 
dinner, which is taken in company at a long 
table. The other meals are taken separately, each 
sister at her cupboai'd. Then we went upstairs, 
along passages with sacred engravings on the 
walls, to see the bedrooms, all of which, like 
the houses, ai'e dedicated to saints ; and by an 
odd chance, in the one that we entered, which 
was Lucie Vinken's own, very small and clean 
and holy, in one of the drawers was a packet of 
picture postcards of the Beguinage — only a franc 
— and by another chance Lucie Vinken had no 
change, and very natui'ally misunderstood me to 
say that it was of no importance and the balance 
of my five-franc piece should go to the paiivres. 
Lucie Vinken being the clever woman she is, 
I agreed hastily that that was what I had said. 
ii8 



For my Conversion 

And then she enlarged ujwn the pleasures of the 
life, of which she has had three - and - twenty 
years, and hoped it might not be long before 
we were members of the same broad - bosomed 
Church ; and indeed said that she felt it so much 
that if she had Madame's permission she would 
pray for her speedy conversion : and how can 
one say '^•' No " to a request like that? And then, 
drawing Madame aside, she asked her in a 
whisper if Monsieur would resent it if she prayed 
also for him ; and Madame assured her he would 
adore it : and so at this moment, for all I know, 
Sister Lucie Vinken is on her knees drawing me 
by invisible threads nearer and nearer to the 
Eternal City. . . . And she has my address too, 
for we exchanged cards, quite like duellists, and 
hers lies before me as I write. I have more than 
that ; for I have her photograph, snapped as she 
stood in Peter De Hooch's doorway and smiled 
adieu, and not only adieu but au-revoir, as we 
drove away. 

But I go too fast. For it was in her little 
bedroom, and dallying in the white passage 
among the sacred prints, and hovering on the 
stairs as we descended, that Sister Lucie Vinken 
told us all about these Beguinages and their 
history : how th«y were founded in the twelfth 
century ; how the sisters were as free as air to 
.119 



" To adore the good God " 

come and go if they -wished, but mostly stayed, 
all vowed to good works but not irrevocably to 
anything else — teaching, nursing, sewing and 
making lace, the last two employments being so 
much their staple occupation as to determine the 
time of vespers, which do not begin in winter or 
summer until the daylight has so faded as to 
endanger the workers' sight : worshipping always, 
with little if any less assiduity than real nuns 
who have taken the veil once and for all. " We 
rise at half-past four," she said in her quiet 
voice. " We are all veiy sleepy, yes, but since it 
is to adore the good God it gives us pleasure." 
Beguinages, Lucie Vinken added, are to be found 
in the other chief Belgian towns — Louvain has 
a very beautiful one — but Ghent is their capital. 
Ghent counts her Beguines in thousands : the 
others only in hundreds. And so on. 

And as she talked I found myself wondering 
if the Beguinage could ever come to this country, 
where unemployed unmarried women darken the 
earth. And as I looked out of a window and 
watched the quiet figures standing alone or in 
company at their gateways, all contented-looking 
and ready to smile in an unsmiling country — for 
the Belgian face is hard — or moving about by the 
church and the xneadow, talking to their friends 
from the city, playing with children (which they 

I20 



Mary and Martha 

may have to stay with them if they like), and 
returning from sickbeds and other kindly 
missions, I felt that many a single English- 
woman might do worse than give such a life a 
trial. To have the privileges and virtues of the 
nun and be no nun — that is, perhaps, to come as 
near the secret at any rate as to have the suffrage. 
And so by gradual stages we descended to a 
little waiting-room with a picture by the great 
Otto Van Veen (Rubens's master, as every 
Belgian sacristan knows) in it : a picture ot Christ 
in the house of Martha and Mary, with Mary all 
adoration at His feet, and a table groaning be- 
neath a Flemish profusion of food — hares and 
fowls and ducks and green stuff's and joints and 
all the riot that the still-life painters rejoiced in — 
and poor Mai'tha in the background in despair at 
ever reducing such chaos to an orderly hospitality 
without some help from her sister. Velasquez 
at the National Gallery gives these twain a 
small yet sturdy servant-maid, but not so Van 
Veen, Rubens's master. Well, in this room was 
a table which when we had first entered, half an 
hour before, was empty, but was now covered 
with lace ; and by it stood an aged sister inviting 
us to buy. And buy we certainly should not, had 
not Sister Lucie Vinken suggested the readiness 
of the Convent to take a cheque ; and so we went 

T21 



My new Ghent 

off with a lace scai'f for which I was to send 
a cheque made out to a Lady Superior for 
twenty-eight francs, waving farewells and calling 
out promises to return which I hope will be 
fulfilled. 

And now for me Sister Lucie Vinken stands 
and will stand for Ghent, taking the place of the 
galloping Dirck and Joris of Browning's poem, 
who for many years, before I set foot there, had 
been all of Ghent that I had in mind — their 
hoofs beating in my head like a drum whenever 
the city was mentioned. But their day is past. 
Their noisy onset is over. The Avord Ghent 
henceforward will call forth a serene and prosper- 
ous and comfortable cooing lady in black and 
white, moving softly from room to room of her 
spotless female monastery, all smiles and sym- 
pathy and kindness and Rome. Dirck, Joris, 
and their sweating steeds have no place here. 
Over my new Ghent broods the dove. 



LIFE'S LITTLE DIFFICULTIES 



123 



The Wedding Present 



From the Rev. IVilson Large to several of his 
jjarishioners, including Ladi/ Fern, Mrs. Harri- 
son Hoot, Miss Callow, Mrs. Pollard, Sir 
Antkojiy Dix, Mr. Horace Sparrow, and Mr. 
Jack Pj/ie-Luntin 

Dear , — As you no doubt are aware^ our 

friend and neighbour^ Lord Clumber, after a 
period of lonely widowerhood, is about to enter 
again into the bonds of wedlock, with Miss Birdie 
Bangle, and it has been thought that, in addition 
to any little gift which we may individually be 
sending to him, some general token of our esteem 
and our desire as a community for his happiness 
would be timely and welcome. I write to you, 
as to several others of the leading residents in 
125 



Life's Little Difficulties 

the neighbourhood^ to ask for your co-operation 
in this Httle scheme, and for your views as to the 
shape which the testimonial should take. My 
own idea is a timepiece, with a suitable inscrip- 
tion on a silver plate beneath the dial. — Believe 
me, yours cordially, Wilson Large 



M)\ Jack Pijke-Luntin to the Rev. Wilson Large 

Dear Large, — If by timepiece you mean 
clock, I'm on. Of course old Clum has clocks to 
burn, but wedding presents don't count. It's 
the thought behind them. Put me down for a 
sovereign, and if I can help you by buying the 
clock when I go to town next, I will do so gladly. 
But you must give me all instructions very 
clearly. — Yours, J. Pyke-Luntin 



Mixs Calloiv to the Rev. IVihon Larse 

Dear Mr. Large, — Your news has made me a 
new woman. I have been very ill with rheuma- 
tism and general depression for so long, but the 
thought that dear Lord Clumber is again to be 
made happy has brightened every minute since 
your letter came. I like the idea of the clock — 
126 



The Wedding Present 

how very clever of you ! Such unsuitable presents 
are often given on these, to me, sacred occa- 
sions, such even as spirit flasks and other un- 
pleasantly material things. But of course you, with 
your views on temperance, would not have per- 
mitted anything like that. I enclose a cheque for 
two guineas. — Youi's sincerely and gratefully, 

Ellen Callow 



Ladij Fern to the Rev. Wilson Large 

Dear Mr. Large, — I am both pained and 
shocked by the interest you are taking in this 
unfortunate marriage. When English noblemen 
marry dancing-girls it is the duty of the clergy to 
weep rather than organise wedding presents. 
Your scheme will receive no countenance from 
me, I remember poor Lady Clamber far too 
vividly. Any present that I may feel disposed 
to make will take an admonitory form, or I may 
possibly send a copy of Lord Avebury's Pleasures 
of Life. — Yours sincerely, Angela Fern 



The Rev. Wilson Large to Lady Fern 

My dear Lady Fern, — I was greatly distressed 
to find that your attitude to Lord Clumbei''s 
127 



Life's Little Difficulties 

engagement is so hostile. I fear, in your perhaps 
natural dislike to see a stranger in the late 
Lady Clumber's place, you have been betrayed 
into a slight error. You say a "dancing-girl/' 
but I understand that Miss Bangle spoke quite a 
number of words in the last play at (I think) the 
Gaiety Theatre, and by some of the leading 
critics was very warmly praised for her imaginative 
treatment of the part. In any case, I doubt if we 
ought to condemn dancing qua dancing. We have 
all danced a little in our time — I used, I remem- 
ber, to be singularly happy in Sir Roger — and 
Miss Bangle may be a very worthy person in spite 
of her calling. It is enough for me that Lord 
Clumber has chosen her.^ — I am, dear Lady Fern, 
yours cordially, Wilson Large 



Sir Anthony Dix tu the Rev. Wilson Large 

Dear Large, — It's a very good notion, but a 
clock is too dull. Birdie won't care for a clock 
at all ; not unless she's very different from what 
she used to be. A motor-coat would be much 
more in her line, or a tasty fan. I saw some 
beauties the other day in Bond Street. It's 
rather a joke for her to catch Clumber; and a 
128 



The Wedding Present 

good deal of a change for him after the late 
Lady C. I enclose a cheque for two pounds, 
anyway. — -Yours truly, Anthony Dix 



Mrs. Harrison Root to the Rev. JVilson Large 

Dear Mr. Large, — I cannot find that anyone 
stayhig in this Pension knows Miss Bangle's 
name, although there are several ladies who 
seem to be ardent playgoers. But })erhaps she 
has only just appeared in London. Mr. Benson, 
whoiTi I know slightly, is always jiroducing 
wonderful new Shakspearean actresses, and I 
imagine Miss Bangle to be one of these. But 
what an odd name ! — Yours sincerely, 

Grace Harrison Root 



Mr. Horace Sparrow to the Rev. JVilson Large 

Dear Large, — I think your idea a good one, 
and I shall be glad to join. But is not a clock 
a rather unimaginative present .'' It always seems 
to me that insufficient thought is given to such 
matters. I have put down a few articles which 
I 129 



Life's Little Difficulties 

my wife and I considei* more suitable and 
original. — Believe me, yours sincerely, 

Horace Sparrow 

Reading Lamp. 
Revolving Bookcase. 
Complete set of Ruskin. 
After-dinner Coffee set. 

P.S. — Mrs. Sparrow and myself have derived 
more comfort from a breakfast heater than any 
other of our very numerous wedding presents. 

H. S. 



Misx Effie Pollard to the Rev. Wilson Large 

Dear Mr. Large, — We think it such a charm- 
ing idea of yours, and shall be delighted to 
assist. My mother is in favour of a butter-dish, 
but the clock seems to me an admirable thought. 
What could be prettier than a reminder such as 
this that another hour of happiness has passed, 
and that so many friends have good wishes for 
the new life ! As I tell mother, she can give the 
butter-dish independently, if you think that our 
one visit to Clumber Towers, on the occasion of 
the Missionary Helpers' L^nion annual fete, a 



The Wedding Present 

sufficient ground. Meanwhile I enclose a postal 
order for a pound, and remain yours sincerely, 

Effie Pollard 



The Rev. JVU.son Large to Mrs. Harrison Root 

Dear Mrs. Root, — I am happy to be able to 
tell you that everything is in train for the 
wedding present for Lord Clumber. Mr. Pyke- 
Luntin has very kindly arranged to buy the clock 
in London, in a shop in Bond Street where I saw 
them, and to arrange for a suitable inscription. 
The Taller which you send me is very interest- 
ing. Miss Bangle has certainly a very charming 
face, but it seems to me to border too much on 
familiarity to call her plain " Birdie " underneath. 
Lord Clumber can hardly like that. Still, it is 
not for me to sit in judgment. — Believe me, dear 
Mrs. Root, yours cordially, 

Wilson Large 



Mr. Jack Pijke-Lunt'm to the Rev. Wilson Large 

Dear Large, — I am somy to say that the fog 
yesterday was too much for me altogether, and 
made it impossible to get to Bond Street. But 
131 



Life's Little Difficulties 

I managed to struggle as far as the Stores, 
and I think you will be delighted with what 
I managed to secure — a real bargain. They had 
no clocks worth anything, and so I hopped on 
to this — a first-class Tantalus. It is being en- 
graved to-day, and should reach you to-morrow. 
I know old Clum will appreciate that, and he's 
got clocks enough already to tick his head 
off, — Yours sincerely, J. Pyke-Luntin 



132 



II 

Jane's Eighth or Ninth -^ ^:> ^ 

Mrs. Wishart to her sister, Mrs. Tylor 

Dear Emily, — I suppose you have heard that 
poor Jane is engaged again, and this time it really 
looks as if it might last. I heai'd the news from 
Charlotte, but she says very little. She has not 
seen him yet. He is a curate named Trevor 
Singer, and at present is in a church at Hove. 
It does not sound very grand, but Jane, of 
course, has her £600 a year, and that should 
help. She will never give up her horse, I am 
sure. She is staying at Brighton in a boarding- 
house, all alone, near a mews. How like 
her ! — Yours, Lucv 

Mrs. Tylor to Mrs. Wishart 

Dear Lucv, — What you say about Jane has 
set us all in a flutter. We have been trying to 
133 



Life's Little Difficulties 

fix the number of Mr. Singei''s predecessors. 
Arthur thinks it is seven^ but I can only make 
six, unless, of course, you count that little archi- 
tect who came about the new billiard-room. But 
surely that was all on one side, although the 
same remark might, I suppose, be made about 
them all. Well, it is quite time she settled 
down, for she must be getting on. Is it thirty- 
seven or thirty-eight ? A curate at Hove does 
not sound very exciting, but Jane always looked 
for an amenable man rather than an exciting one. 
Just think of that Socialist she used to lead 
about when we were all at Overstrand. Which 
reminds me that I had forgotten him when I was 
counting them up. He makes seven for certain 
— with the little architect eight, and with Mr. 
Singer nine. I am dying to hear more about it 
all. — Yours, Emily 

Mr. Hugh Tijlor to Mrs. Tijlur 

Dear Mother, — Who do you think I saw on 
the sea wall yesterday ? Jane, — with a very old 
parson. She was hanging on his arm just as if 
she were his only daughter, and I walked behind 
them for ever so far, and then hurried away 
before they turned, as I didn't want to meet 
them and have the bore of being introduced. 
134 



Jane's Eighth or Ninth 

Besides, I didn't want Jane to know I was here, 
or she would be bothering me to ride out with 
her beside her old rocking-horse. But I wonder 
who the parson is and how she got so thick with 
him. It's a change for her, after her poets and 
high-art furniture men. — Your affectionate 

Hugh 

Mr. Hugh Tylor to Mrs. Tylor 

My dear Mother, — I cannot answer your ques- 
tions, I am afraid, as I have not seen the parson 
again, although I saw Jane on horseback yester- 
day and was just in time to turn into a by-street. 
At the " Bedford," where I am, one is rather 
out of the way of finding out anything about 
Hove curates, but his name is in the Directory 
all right. Why don't you try the Clergy List if 
you want to know more ? Or write to Jane 
yourself. Only if you do, don't say I am at 
Brighton : I came here for rest. I am quite 
sure it was an old man — about a hundred, I 
should say. Certainly not a young and dashing 
curate. — Your affectionate Hugh 

Mrs. Tylor to her niece, Jane Riidstock 

My dear Jane, — I have just heard what I 
hope is a true rumour — that you are engaged. 
135 



Life's Little Difficulties 

I think you might have told me yourself, but no 
doubt you have had very little time in the midst 
of your new happiness. Do let me have a line 
and tell me all about him ; what he does, 
where you will live, what his age is, and so 
forth. — Your loving aunt, Emily 



Miss Jane Riidstock to Mrs. Tylor 

My dear Aunt Emily, — I am sorry that I did 
not write to you at once. As a matter of fact I 
did start a letter to you a day or so ago, but while 
I was in the midst of it I went for a ride and saw 
Hugh coming towards me, but the way in which 
he turned his horse's head up a by-street because 
he did not want to be bored by meeting me, dis- 
couraged me from going on. I am not vindictive, 
but I am utterly daunted by any suspicion of 
avoidance in others. As it is, however, unfair to 
include you in this feeling, I tell you now very 
readily that the rumour is true. It is a Mr. 
Singer, a curate at St. Benedict's, Hove, and we 
hope to be married very soon. He will stay here 
until he gets a living, which may happen at any 
moment, as he is on very good terms with both 
the Bishop and the Archbishop. His age is 
thirty-four. I could have wished that my 
lliusband were older than I, but Trevor won't 
136 



Jane's Eighth or Ninth 

hear of this. He is totally without relations^ and 
was a very lonely man until I met him — on the 
Downs above Brightonj where he helped to get 
a stone out of Tommy's foot. — Your affectionate 
niece, Jane 

Mrs. Tylor to Mr. Hugh Tijlor 

My dear Hugh, — The plot thickens. Jane 
(who, it seems, saw you that day when you were 
riding, and is hurt by your treatment) tells 
me that her Jianck is only thirty-four. This 
makes the old clergyman whom you saw her 
embi'acing a very mysterious creature. Are you 
sure it was Jane } It is all very perplexing. You 
ought to call on the poor girl. She is very 
unhappy about your behavioui*. — Your loving 
mother. 

Mrs. Tylor to Mrs. Wishart 

Dear Lucy, — I have heard from Jane, a nice 
letter telling me all about Mr. Singer, and how 
happy she is. One of her delightful, spontaneous, 
confiding letters. She says that he is thirty-foui", 
but the odd thing is that Hugh, who is at Brigh- 
ton, saw her hanging on the arm of quite an 
old clergyman, in public, on the sea wall. As 
the dear girl says that her Jiance has no relations, 
137 



Life's Little Difficulties 

this is very odd, isn't it ? But she always was 
odd, and made such curious friends. — Yours, 

Emily 

Mrs. Rudstock to her daughter, Jane Riidstock 

My dearest Jane, — I am so distressed, having 
heard through your Aunt Lucy a very odd story 
of your being seen on the Brighton Front in much 
too friendly intercourse with an old clergyman, 
just after your engageinent to Mr. Singer. My 
dear child, you must be very careful now that 
you are engaged. Apart altogether from Mr. 
Singer's feelings, you must consider us too. It 
was bad enough to go to Brighton without any 
chaperon but your eternal horse. Please set my 
mind at rest by telling me who this old clergyman 
was. I hope Mr. Singer's grandfather, although 
I seem to remember that you said lie had no 
relations. — Your fond mother. 

From Jane Rudstock to Mrs. Rudstock 

My dear Mother, — As usual, the whole 
trouble has come through Aunt Lucy and Aunt 
Emily. Hugh seems to have been spying about 
at Brighton and sending home silly letters, 
although he has not had the friendliness to call 
on me. There is nothins^ to explain, except that 
138 



Jane's Eighth or Ninth 

Trevor has white hair and from the back might 
look okler than he is. If you were to trust me 
more it woukl be better for us all. — Your loving 
daughter, Jane 

Mrs. lliidstock to her daughter Jane 

My dear Child, — Your letter fills me with 
misgivings. Don't say you are marrying an 
albino. You will be the first Rudstock to do 
such a thing. Do let me know instantly that 
his white hair was the result of an illness, or a 
sudden fright. I cannot bear the thought of my 
daughter's husband having pink eyes. — Your dis- 
tressed mother. 

Jane Rudstock to Mrs. Rudstock 
(^Telegraui^ 

Trevor albino right enough. Took double 
first Oxford. Cousin Lord Lamberhurst. First 
authority England on Saxon fonts. Amateur 
champion racquets, 189^. Longs meet you. 

Jane 

Mrs. Rudstock to her sister, Mrs. JVishart 

Dear Lucy, — I do wish you would learn a 
lesson from the past, and not exaggerate simple 
things. That dreadful ti'ouble over Agnes and 
139 



Life's Little Difficulties 

the Sunday School treat ought to have taught 
you something. All the fuss about poor Jane at 
Brighton is due to the simple fact that Mr. 
Singer, to whom she is engaged, has prematurely 
white hair — is, in fact, an albino. Why he should 
not be I cannot see. In fact, I think albinos 
quite attractive, and they are notoriously cleverer 
than other people. He is a dear good fellow, a 
great scholar and athlete, and the cousin of Lord 
Lamberhurst, and we are all going to be very fond 
of him. Please write Jane a nice letter. — Yours, 

Charlotte 

Mrs. Wishart to Mrs. Tylor 

Dear Emily, — It is so funny I can hardly 
hold the pen. Jane's choice is an albino, and 
that accounts for the white hair. Charlotte is 
trying to brave it out and pretend that she could 
not love any son-in-law who had not white hair 
and pink eyes, but of course she is mortified to 
death at the humiliation of it. Poor Jane ! 
How they can allow an albino to take orders I 
can't think, especially when the Church is threat- 
ened on all sides as it now is ; but there you are. 
I wish you had sent on Jane's confiding, spon- 
taneous letter about her freak, but I suppose you 
had your reasons for not doing so. — Yours, 

Lucy 
140 



Ill 

The Chauffeur ^^ ^ 



Mrs. Adrian Armyne to her sister 
(^Extract) 

We have found a most delightful chauffeur, a 
Frenchman named Achille Le Bon, Avho speaks 
English perfectly, although with a fascinating 
accent, and is altogether most friendly and 
useful. He is continually doing little things 
for me, and it is nice too to have someone to talk 
French with. Adrian's conversational French 
has always been very rust}'. You remember how 
in that little shop at Avignon in 1887 he said 
" Quel dommage ? " for " What is the price .^ " 



Mr. Adrian Armyne to the Conservative Agent at 
Wilchester 

Mr. Adrian Armyne presents his compliments 
to Mr. Bashford, and greatly regrets what must 
141 



Life's Little Difficulties 

look very like a slight in his absence from the 
chair at last night's meeting, but circumstances 
over which he had no control caused him to miss 
the way in his motor-car and afterwards to break 
down at a spot where it was impossible to get 
any other vehicle. Mr. Armyne cannot too 
emphatically express his regret at the occurrence, 
and his hope that trust in his good faith as a 
worker in the cause of Fiscal Reform may not be 
permanently shattered. 



Sir Vernon Boyce to Mr. Armyne 

Dear Armyne, — I think you ought to know 
that I came across your Frenchman with a gun 
in the Lower Spinney this morning, evidently 
intending to get what he could. He explained 
to me that he distinctly understood you to say 
that he was at liberty to shoot there. How such 
a misunderstanding can have arisen I cannot 
guess, but he is now clearly informed as to 
divisions of land and other matters which 
apparently are different in France. It is all 
right, but I think you ought to keep an eye 
on him. — Yours sincei'ely, 

Vernon Boyce 
142 



The Chauffeur 



Mrs. Armyne to her sister 
{Extract) 

Achille is certainly very useful, although his 
mercurial French nature makes him a little too 
careless about time, and once or twice he has 
been nowhere to be found at important junctures. 
For instance, we completely missed Lord Tan- 
caster's wedding the other day. Not that that 
mattered very much, especially as we had sent 
a silver inkstand, but Adrian is rather annoyed. 
Achille plays the mandoline charmingly (we hear 
him at night in the servants' hall), and he has 
been teaching me repousse work. 



Mrs. Armijne to Mrs. Jack huon 

Dear Mrs. Lyon, — My husband and myself 
are deeply distressed to have put out your table 
last evening, but it was one of those accidents 
that occur now and then, and which there is no 
foreseeing or remedying. The fact is that we were 
all ready to go and had ordered the car, when it 
transpired that Achille, our chaufieur, had been 
called to London by telegram, and had left in so 
great a hurry that he had no time to warn us. 
143 



Life's Little Difficulties 

By the time we could have sent to the village and 
got a carriage your dinner would have been over, 
and so we decided not to go at all. Achille has 
not yet returned, which makes us fear that the 
poor fellow, who has relatives in Soho, may have 
found real trouble. — Yours sincerely, 

Emily Armyne 



Mr. Armyne to Achille Le Bon 

Dear Achille, — I am very sorry to have to 
tell you that it has been made necessary for us to 
ask you to go. This is not on account of any dis- 
satisfaction that we have with you, but merely 
that Mrs. Armyne has heard of the son of an old 
housekeeper of her father's who wishes for a post 
as chauffeur, and she feels it only right that he 
should be given a trial. You will, I am sure, see 
how the case stands. Perhaps we had better say 
that a month's notice begins from to-day, but you 
may leave as much earlier as you like. I shall, of 
course, be only too pleased to do all I can to find 
you another situation. I should have told you 
this in person, but had to go to town, and 
now write because I think it would be wrong 
not to let you have as early an intimation of 
Mrs. Armyne's decision as possible. — I am, yours 
faithfully, Adrian Armyne 

144 



The Chauffeur 



Mr. Arniyne to Achille Le Bon 
(By hand) 

Dear Achille, — I am afraid that a letter which 
was posted to you from London when I was last 
there, a month ago, cannot have reached you. 
Letters are sometimes lost, and this must be one 
of them. In it I had to inform you that Mrs. 
Armyne, having made arrangements for an 
English chauffeur who has claims on her con- 
sideration (being the son of an old housekeeper 
of her father's, who was in his service for inany 
years, and quite one of the family), it was made 
necessary for us, much against our will, for we 
esteem you very highly, to ask you to go. As 
that letter miscarried, I must now repeat the 
month's notice that I then was forced to give^ 
and the permission for you to leave at any time 
within the month if you like. — I am, yours, 
faithfully, Adrian Armyne 

VIII 

Mr. Armyne to his nephew, Sidney Burnet 
(^Extract') 

There seems to be nothing for it but to sell our 
car. This is a great blow to us, but we cannot go 
K 145 



Life's Little Difficulties 

on as we are, apparently owning a car but in 
reality being owned by a chauffeur. 



Sidney Burnet to Mr. Armyne 

Dear Uncle, — Don't sell the car. The thing 
to do is to pi'etend to sell it, get rid of your 
Napoleon, and then have it back. Why not say 
I have. bought it ? I will come over one day soon 
and drive it home. Say Thursday morning. — Your 
affectionate nephew, Sidney 



Mr. Armyne to Mr. Sidney Burnet 

My dear Sidney, — Your plan seems to me to 
be ingenious, but your aunt is opposed to it. 
She says that Achille might find it out. Suppose, 
for example, he came back for something he had 
forgotten and saw the car in the coach-house again ! 
What should we do ? Another objection is that 
poor Job is ill, and Achille remarked to me the 
other day that before he took to engineering he 
was a gardener. From what I know of him, this 
means that unless Job gets better, Achille — if 
146 



The Chauffeur 

your plan is carried through — will ask to be 
retained in Job's place, and this will mean that we 
shall never see asparagus or strawberries again. 
Don't you think that we might go to town, and 
you could ride over to " Highfield " and give 
Achille notice yourself for me ? We will go 
to town to-morrow, and you might see Achille on 
Monday. — Your affectionate uncle. 



Sid net/ Burnet to Mr. Arniyne 

Dear Uncle, — I went over and sacked Achille 
to-day as arranged, but he replied that he could 
take notice only from you ; and that from what 
Aunt Emily had said to him j ust before you went 
away he is sure there has been some mistake. As 
to notice from you, I'm afraid the beggar's right. 
He seems to have taken advantage of your 
absence to build a really rather clever pergola 
leading from Aunt Emily's sitting-room to the 
rose walk, as a surprise for Mrs. Armyne, he said. 
He has also re-painted all your bookshelves and 
mended that pair of library steps. With the 
despatch of this bulletin I retire from the position 
of discharger of Frenchmen. — Your affectionate 
nephew, Sidney 

147 



Life's Little Difficulties 



Mrs. Jack Lyon to a friend a few months later 
{Extract) 

You remember the Aimynes ? In despair at 
ever getting rid of their chauffeur, who certainly 
led them a fearful dance, although he was rather 
a dear creature, the poor things let their house 
for a year and decided to travel. I have just 
heard from Bella, from Florence, that she met 
them toiling up the hill to Fiesole the other day, 
and behind them, carrying Mrs. Armyne's easel, 
was — who do you think ? The chauffeur ! 



148 



IV 
The Dedication <:> ^ <:> «o -^ 



Mr. Launcelut JVijke Pilling, of " The Dryads," 
Worthing, to Dr. W. Porter Roddy, Mereham, 

Norjolk 

Dear Dr. Roddy, — I am just collecting together 
in one volume all my fugitive poetry of the past 
nine years, since the publication of my Death of 
Ham, and other Poems, and it would give me great 
pleasure to dedicate the book to you, not only as 
some recognition of your industry as an antiquary, 
but also as an acknowledgment of the great skill 
which you displayed during my long and very severe 
illness last summer, from which I am now happily 
recovered, save for an increased tendency to take 
cold. — Believe me, dear Doctor, yours veiy truly, 
Launcelot Wyke Pilling 
149 



Life's Little Difficulties 



Br. Roddy to Mr. Pilling 

My dear Mr. Pilling, — Your letter, with its 
flattering offer, does me too much honour. The 
archaeologist quickly gets into the habit of not 
looking for recognition or reward. Perhaps, as 
antiquity has worked for him, it is only right that 
he should work for posterity. Hence, although 
such coupx as I may have brought off in the fields 
of archaeology and folk-lore have been commemo- 
rated in the local press and in the minutes of our 
Society, the wider world knows almost nothing of 
me. The dedication page of your volume will be 
the first intimation of my name and career to a 
large portion of the English-speaking community. 
I thank you very heartily for your courtesy. 
Perhaps you will let me have a notion of the form 
which the dedication will take. As for your 
tendency to catch cold, of which I am very sorry 
to hear, I would recommend the adoption of an 
abdominal belt, often a sure precautionary 
measure. — Believe me, my dear Sir, yours very 
truly, 

W, Porter Roddy 



150 



The Dedication. 



Mr. Pilling to Dr. Uoddy 

Dear Dr. Roddy, — It gratifies me extremely 
to find that you will allow your name to honour 
my poor bantling. The dedication will run 
thus : — 

To W. Porter Roddy, M.D. 

the modern Galen to whom the author owes 
his life, recently jeopardised on a visit to 
the East Coast by a severe attack of 
rheumatoid arthritis, and the modern Old- 
buck to whose imaginative labour and 
indefatigable researches into the storied past 
the townspeople of Mereham and the in- 
habitants of East Norfolk generally owe 
so much, this volume is, with respect and 
admiration, dedicated. 

I think that that expresses the case very 
clearly and, if I may say so, with a pleasant allu- 
siveness, and I feel sui-e that you will agree withi 
me. I am ordering an abdominal belt. — Believe 
me, dear Doctor, yours very truly, 

Launcelot Wyke Pilling 

P.S. — I re-open this to say that I have 
suddenly become the victim of a most curious and,, 
151 



Life's Little Difficulties 

to me, alarming singing in the ears, so loud that I 
can hardly hear anything that is going on. 

L. W. P. 



Dr. Boddij to Mr. Pilling 

Dear Mr. Pilling, — The wording of the dedi- 
cation is very flattering, and I am so much 
honoured by it that I hesitate to utter a syllable 
of criticism ; but since you have been so kind I 
am emboldened to suggest that a more suitable 
predecessor than Oldbuck might be found. For 
two reasons : (l) he was a character not in real 
life but in fiction, in a novel by Sir Walter Scott, 
and Galen being a real man I would suggest, 
with all deference, that whatever antiquary you 
choose should be real too ; and (2) if by any 
typographical disaster, such as are, unhappily, 
only too frequent in our local press, a space were 
to intervene between the first and second syllables 
of his name, the reference to me would become 
instantly not respectful as you so kindly desire, 
but grotesque. I trust I make myself clear. I 
would suggest the substitute of some such name 
as Aubrey or Leland. 

The singing in the ears has probably passed 
away by this time ; but if it has not I should 
152 



The Dedication 

take a tonic. Weston's Syrup might be useful, 
and it is easily obtained of any chemist. — Believe 
me, youvs very truly, W. Porter Roddy 



Mr. Pilling to Dr. Baddy 

Dear Dr. Roddy, — I am sorry that you take 
exception to my dedication, which was, I assure 
you, not idly thrown off, but re])resents the work 
of some hours of thought. Your objection to 
Oldhiick illustrates once again the impossibility 
of reconciling science with poetry. I, a poet, 
wishing my dedication to be in keeping with my 
book, choose deliberately a figure of the imagina- 
tion from the greatest of all modern novelists 
(whom you do not, I fear, sufficiently esteem). 
You, being a man of science, require me to sub- 
stitute the name of some fusty old bookworm 
and tombstone -scraper from real life. Few 
people give way to criticism so readily as I, but 
in this case I really must be firm. 

The singing in the head, which you treat so 
lightly, still continues to cause me the gravest 
concern. I have taken two doses of the syrup 
without any relief. — Believe me, yours truly, 

Launcelot Wyke Pilling 

153 



Life's Little Difficulties 



Dr. Roddy to Mr. Pilling 

Dear Mr. Pilling, — I am sorry that we cannot 
see eye to eye in this mattei*. I have taken the 
liberty of submitting yom* dedication to several 
of my friends, including the Vicar, an exception- 
ally gifted man, and the Curator of the Museum, 
whose memoir on bees is a standard work, and 
all agree with me that a suggestion of not pre- 
cisely frivolity but want of the highest seriousness 
is imparted by the reference to Jonathan Oldhuck. 
The Vicar is also of opinion that it is, perhaps, 
understating the case to limit my reputation, as 
you do, to East Norfolk, since I have several 
times contributed to Notes and Queries. I have, 
hoAvever, done with criticism, and beg to repeat 
my thanks to you for your kindness. 

A tonic requires time to do its work. Two 
doses could not effect any matei'ial impi'ovement. 
The singing is probably over by now. — Believe 
me, yours very truly, W. Porter Roddy 



Mr. Pilling to Dr. Roddy 

Dear Dr. Roddy, — I am horrified to learn that 
you have committed the solecism — the unpardon- 



The Dedication 

able solecism — of showing my dedication to 
strangers. Were you more conversant with the 
laws, written or unwritten, of authorship, you 
would know that this is never done : that every- 
thing is avoided that can take the fine edge of 
novelty from a new book. The incident has 
completely disheai'tened me, and I am quite 
incapable of attending any further to the dedi- 
cation. 

To add to it all, the singing in my ears 
increases. — Believe me, yours faithfully, 

Launcelot Wvke Pilling 



Dr. Roddy to Mr. Pillhig 

Dex\r Mr. Pilling, — I am extremely sorry ; 
but my friends read the dedication in strictest 
confidence, and I was quite unaware that I was 
offending. Perhaps the matter had better drop 
altogether. You will have, I am sure, no diffi- 
culty in finding a worthier and less critical 
object to whom to offer your volume. — Believe 
me, yours very truly, 

VV. Porter Roddy 



155 



Life's Little Difficulties 



Mr. Pilling to the Bishop of Coster 

My Lord, — I am just collecting together in 
one volume all my fugitive poetry of the past 
nine yeai's, — since, in fact, the publication of my 
Death of Haul, and other Poems, — and it Avould 
give me great pleasure and confer a high dis- 
tinction upon the book, if I might be permitted 
to dedicate it to you, not only to mark your 
interest in poetry, but also from personal gratitude 
for benefits received from your Lenten sermons 
last year, which I attended with my wife, and 
which we still vividly remember. — Believe me, 
my Lord, your obedient servant, 

Launcelot Wvke Pilling 



The Rev. Cijril Blood {l^rivate Secretary to the 
Bishop of Caster^ to Mr. Pilling 

Dear Sir, — I am instructed by the Bishop to 
say that he will be pleased to accept the dedi- 
cation to which you refer ; but that if you pro- 
pose to make it a lengthy one he must insist 
on seeing a proof. — I am, yours faithfully, 

Cyril Blood 



156 



The Appointment 



Mr. Adrian Spilling, of ihe Education Office, to 
Miss Meta Bland 

(^By hand. " Wait reply ") 

My dear Girl, — What has happened ? I 
waited for you from five minutes to three until 
twenty past four, when I had to go in order 
to show up in Whitehall for a little while. 
Where can you have been ? It is not as if 
I had so much time to spare that it can be 
frittered away like this. Surely I wrote clearly 
enough — " Under the clock, Victoria, at three." 
I distinctly remember writing these words. 
Please let me have a line at any rate to say 
you are all right. — Yours always, 

A. 



Life's Little Difficulties 



Miss Met a Bland to Mr. Adrian Spilling 

(By hand. " Wait reply ") 

My dear Adrian, — Do send me a word to say 
you are wellj and that it was only some horrid 
office business that kept you. I am so nervous 
about you. I waited as you told me under the 
clock at Victoria, from five minutes past three (I 
could not possibly get there before) until four, 
and then I gave it up and went to Mrs. Legge's 
to tea, as I was compelled to do. Unless you had 
come and gone before I got there, I cannot have 
missed you, for I watched everybody that entered 
the station. These broken appointments are 
terribly wearing. I am tired out this evening, 
and quite unfit to dine at the Sergisons, where 
they always talk about Velasquez and show you 
sprigs of the true poet's laurel. — Ever yours, 

M. 



Miss Meta Bland to Mr. Adrian SpilUng 

(By hand. Answer to No. l) 

Dear Adrian, — I haven't the slightest idea 
what your letter means. I repeat that I waited 
under the clock at Victoria from five minutes 
158 



The Appointment 

past three until four. If you also were there you 
were invisible. I am relieved to find you are all 
right. — Youi's, M. 



Mr. Adrian Spilling to Miss Meta Bland 

{By hand. Answer to No. 2) 

Dear Meta, — It is inexplicable to me. I was 
certainly there, and as certainly you were not ; 
and another afternoon has been lost. These 
things I simply cannot view with composure. 
Life is too short. I will let you know about 
Thursday as soon as I can, but my Chief 
seems to be inclined to resent my long ab- 
sence to day, and I shall have to be a little 
careful. — Yours, A. 

P.S. — It has just occurred to me that you may 
have been waiting at the London and Brighton 
part of the station. That, of course, would 
explain it, although how you could imagine me 
to mean that I cannot think. 



Miss Meta Bland to Mr. Adtian Spilling 

Dear Adrian, — I have only just learned that 
there are two stations at Victoria. Considering 
159 



Life's Little Difficulties 

how often I have been to Brighton lately, you 
surely might have been more explicit and said 
quite plainly that it was the other that you 
meant. It is all very foolish and disappointing. 
I should like to forget it. — Yours, M. 



Mr. Adrian Spilling to Miss Meta Bland 

Dear Meta, — I should like to forget it too ; 
but what you say simply bowls me out. I always 
looked upon you as one of the few women who 
have any intelligence. How you can say you did 
not know there was another Victoria passes 
my knowledge, when it was from there that 
we went on that awful visit to your aunt at 
Faversham. However, I shall know better next 
time. — Yours, A. 

VII 

Miss Meta Bland to Mr. Adria?i Spilling 

Dear Adrian, — I thought we went to Favers- 
ham from Charing Cross ; but anyway I don't see 
why you are so bitter about poor Aunt Adelaide. 
I am sure she was very kind to you, and even let 
you smoke in the house, which no one was ever 
allowed to do before. It seems to me that since 
1 60 



The Appointment 

you knew all about there being two Victoria 
Stations you might have walked over to the 
other one to see if I was there. — Yours, 

M. 



Mr. Adrian Spilling to Miss Meta Bland 

Dear Meta, — I don't understand you at all 
about your aunt. All the time we were there 
you were scheming to be out of doors, and I still 
remember your sigh of relief when the train 
started on the Monday morning ; but now you 
take a directly opposite view. I suppose women 
are like this. As to coming over to the Brighton 
side to see if you were there, I never dreamed 
you could be so foolish as to make the mistake, 
and besides, if I had left my post I might have 
missed you. But do let us drop this wretched 
subject. 

I am very sorry to say that I can't possibly 
take you to hear Kreisler on Friday as we had 
planned. My Chief has asked me to dinner, and 
it amounts to a command. But I could come 
afterwai'ds and take you home. — Yours, 

A. 



i6i 



Life's Little Difficulties 

IX 

Miss Meta Bland to Mr. Adrian Spilling 

Dear Adrian, — It doesn't in the least matter 
about Kreisler, as Mr. Cumnor-Hall, who was 
here this evening when your note camej is going 
to take us. Please don't trouble to leave your 
party in order to fetch me home, as Mr. 
Cumnor-Hall has asked us to have supper after- 
wards. He is always so generous about things 
like that.— Yours, M. 



Mr. Adrian Spilling to Miss Meta Bland 

Dear Meta, — Of course you must do as you 
wish about Cumnor-Hall. I shall certainly not 
come to fetch you, as he is not the kind of man 
that I care about. Your sneer about my want 
of generosity is the cruellest thing I ever re- 
member anyone saying to me. When one has 
only £300 a year in a Government office, and a 
very small private income, supper parties at the 
Savoy are not easy things. If you want 
luxuries like that it is a pity you ever made 
me love you. — Yours, A. 



162 



The Appointment 



Miss Meta Bland to Mr. Adrian Spilling 

Dear Adrian, — You are most unkind and 
unfaii'. You know I did not mean to suggest 
that you were ungenerous. I think of you as the 
most generous man I know. And you ought to 
know that the last thing I shoukl ever do woukl 
be to sneer at you. I don't sneer at anyone, 
least of all at you. But that horrid Victoria 
Station affair seems to have made us both ready 
to misunderstand each other. Do let us have 
all Saturday afternoon somewhere and forget this 
stupid, bad-tempered week. — Ever yours, M. 

XII 

Mr. Adrian Spilling to Miss Meta Bland 

(Bij luuuV) 

My darling Meta, — We will go to Kew on 
Saturday afternoon. I will come for you at half- 
past two. I hope you will think this little piece of 
enamel rather sweet. I do. — Yours always, 

A. 



163 



V[ 
The Testimonial 



Jahez Copley, of Copley's Stores, to the leading 
residents of Great Burley and neighbourhood 

(cyclostyle) 
The Missenden Testimonial Fund 

Dear Sir (or Madam), — I have the honour to 
inform you that our wortliy Stationmaster Mr. 
Missenden, having received promotion, is leaving 
us very shortly for a higher sphere of activity, and 
some of his friends met together last night at the 
" King's Arms " to confer as to a testimonial to 
be presented to him. Greatly to my surprise, I 
was asked to undertake the duties of hon. 
secretary and hon. treasurer, and it is in these 
capacities that I take the liberty of addressing 
you. The meeting decided to open a subscrip- 
164 



The Testimonial 

tion list for Mr. Missenden in the town and 
neighboui'hood, and to present him with the 
proceeds and with an illuminated address. 

The following is the address that was drawn up 
— I may say by myself: — 

Presented to 
JAMES HENRY MISSENDEN 

BY THE GENTRY AND INHABITANTS OF GREAT 
BURLEY 

on the occasion of his departure from that 
Town, on the completion of nearly Eight Years 
of honourable service as Station Master, to 
take up a post of increased responsibility at 
Clapham Junction — as a mark of their 
appreciation of his Courtesy and Efficiency 
during his period of office at Great Burley 
Terminus. 

This address will be engrossed in several colours 
and in gold, with appropriate borders and scroll- 
work (as in the illuminated texts in our bedrooms) 
by Miss Millie Feathers, at the school, who is 
very clever and artistic with her hands, and 
presented to Mr. Missenden, with the purse, at the 
" King's Arms " on a suitable evening. — Await- 
ing your reply, I am, dear Sir (or Madam), yours 
obediently, Jabez Copley 

Hon. Sec. and Treasurer of the 
Missenden Testimonial Fund 

165 



Life's Little Difficulties 



Added, in Mr. Copley's own hand, to a few of the 
letters 

P.S. — It is not my wish to intrude business, 
but I feel it would be wrong not to take this 
opportunity of informing you that I have just 
received a particularly advantageous line of pre- 
served fruits, which I can do at extraordinarily 
low terms. No time should be lost in ordering. 



Miss Mill to Mr. Jahez Copley 

Dear Mr. Copley, — I had no idea that the 
Stationmaster was going. How interesting to 
find that his name is Missenden ! It was the 
name of my mother's favourite cook. She came, 
I think from Esher, or it may have been Exeter. 
It is odd how long one may live without knowing 
the name of one's Stationmaster, although my 
niece tells me it has to be painted up some- 
where, like a licensed victualler's. I think I 
should like to try a box of the preserved fruit if 
it is really nice. — Yours truly, 

Lydia Mill 



i66 



The Testimonial 



Sir Charles Transom s Secretary to Mr. Jahez 
Copley 

Dear Sir, — Sir Charles Transom directs me to 
present his compliments and to express his regret 
that he must decline to lend his support to the 
testimonial to the Great Burley Stationmaster. 
Sir Charles dislikes to see this kind of premium 
put upon duty, nor can he forget the want of 
sympathetic zeal and alacrity displayed by the 
Stationmaster in the autumn of 1898 in the 
matter of a lost portmanteau containing the 
manuscript of Sir Charles' monograph on the 
Transom family. — Believe me, yours faithfully, 

Vincent A. Lincoln 



IV 

The Vicar of Great Burley to Mr. Jabez Copley 

Dear Mr. Copley, — I am afraid I cannot 
associate myself very cordially with the terms of 
your testimonial to Mr. Missenden. Eight years 
is a very short period to signalise in this way, 
and I do not care for the part played by the 
" King's Ai-ms." I am sorry to have to take 
this line ; but we must act as we believe. I 
167 



Life's Little Difficulties 

should be seriously vexed if you got up a testi- 
monial for me after so short a term of work. — I 
am, yours sincerely, 

Reginald Lowther 



Mr. Jahez Copley to the Vicar of Great Burleif 

Reverend Sir, — I regret that you cannot give 
your valuable and esteemed support to the 
testimonial to Mr. Missenden, but I respect 
your motives. I should like to say in reply to 
your suggestion about a testimonial to yourself 
and my connection with it, that I should never, 
I hope, so far presume as to take the leading 
part in a movement of this kind for a gentleman 
like yourself My I'ule in life is that station should 
keep to station, and I trust I shall never be so 
foolish as to depart from it. But although I 
should not presume to take a leading part 
in your testimonial, as you kindly suggest, I 
should, however, contribute to it with a whole 
heart. — Believe me, yours obediently, 

Jabez Copley 

Hon. Sec. and Treasurer of the 

Missenden Testimonial Fund 



i68 



The Testimonial 



Mr. Aylmer Penistofie to Mr. Jahez Copley 

Dear Mr. Copley, — I do not quite feel dis- 
posed to give anything to Missenden. You 
should draw up a different testimonial for those 
of us who travel third-class, omitting the word 
"courtesy." — I am, yours faithfully, 

Aylmer Penistone 



Mrs. Lyon Monnteney to Mr. Jahez Copley 

Mrs. Mounteney is very pleased to see, from 
Mr. Copley's letter, that a spirit of frendliness 
and comradeship is abroad in Great Burley. 
Would that all English towns had the same 
generous feelings ! Not having used the railway 
for several years, owing to her poor health, Mrs. 
Mounteney does not feel that she could with 
propriety identify herself with so personal a 
testimonial, but she wishes it every success. Mrs. 
Mounteney does not care for preserved fruit. 



Mr. Murray Collier, L.R.C.P., to Mr. Jahez Copley 

Dear Mr. Copley, — A difficulty with regard 
to the boys' boxes, which occurs regularly at the 
169 



Life's Little Difficulties 

end of each term^ and which brings out Mr. 
Missenden's native churlishness hke a rash, makes 
it impossible for me to support your appeal. 
After what I have had to say and write to the 
Stationmaster it would seem pure pusillanimity 
to give him money and praise. May I, however, 
suggest the emendation of one small oversight 
in your otherwise tasteful address } By no 
possible means can our little wayside station be 
described as a " terminus," which is a Latin 
word signifying the end, as I fancy your son 
Harold (whom we all find a very promising and 
attractive boy) would be able to tell you. — I am, 
yours sincerely, Murray Collier 



Mr. Jahez Copleij to the leading residents of Great 
Burleij and Neighbourhood 

(cyclostyle) 

The Missenden Testimonial Fund 

Dear Sir (or Madam), — I beg to inform you 
that at an influential and representative meeting 
held last evening at the " King's Arms," it was 
decided with much regret not to take any further 
steps with regard to the testimonial to Mr. 
Missenden, and to return to the several donors 
170 



The Testimonial 

the £4, I7s. Gd. which the united efforts of myself 
and two of my assistants have been able to 
collect in the past month, minus an amount of 
one guinea to Miss Millie Feathers for work 
already done on the illuminated addi'ess, which 
cannot, we fear, owing to the peculiar nature of 
the wording and its reference to Clapham 
Junction, be adapted to suit any other person. 

If anything is now done to indicate to Mr. 
Missenden that Great Burley appreciates his 
services, which is very doubtful, it will be done 
by a few personal friends, at the " King's Arms." 
I may say here that I have decided under no 
conditions to ever again undertake the duties of 
Secretary or Treasurer of a Testimonial, whether 
hon. or even well paid. — Believe me, dear Sir 
(or Madam), yours obediently, 

Jabez Copley 

P.S. — As I am now laying down for ever the 
pen of the testimonial promoter, I may I'etum to 
my true vocation as a purveyor of high -class 
provisions by saying that I have received this 
morning a consignment of sai'dines of a new and 
reliable brand, which I can do at 6id. the box. 



171 



VII 
The Box o o 



Mrs. Smythe-Sm'dh to Mrs. CVishy 

Dear Mrs. Clisby, — I wonder if you would 
care to use the enclosed box for the Mausoleum 
Theatre on Thursday week. We intended to go 
ourselves, but my husband finds that he will 
have to travel North that day in connection with 
an important case. — With kind regards, I am, 
yours truly, Ruth Smythe-Smith 



Mrs. Clisby to Mrs. Henderson 

My dear Mrs. Henderson, — Would you and 
Mr. Henderson care to join us at the Mausoleum 
on Thursday week? We have a box for that 
night, and should be so glad if you would look 

172 



The Box 

in. Just ask for Mrs. Clisby's box. — With kind 
regards^ I am, yours sincerely, 

Mabel Clisby 



Mrs. Clishy to her sister, Mrs. Thorns 

My dear Sophy, — Our friends the Sntiythe- 
Smiths (he is the barrister) have sent us a box, 
which they are unfortunately prevented from 
using, for the Mausoleum on Thursday week. 
Will you and Henry join us ? We are also 
asking some nice people we met at Matlock in 
the summer — the Hendersons. Mr. Henderson 
is in an important position at Lloyd's, and his 
wife, who is very charming, is a cousin of Sir 
Wilson Arkstone, who made the Corve Tunnel. 
— Your lovinff M. 



Mrs. Thorns to Mrs. Clisby 

Dear Mabel, — We shall love to come to the 
theatre with you. But Aggie insists on coming 
too, and bringing Bertie Rawler with her. I am 
sure you won't mind, she has so few pleasures, 
and Bertie, who is always so considerate, can 
173 



Life's Little Difficulties 

stand at the back if we are at all crowded. He 
is quite like one of oui'selves already, and I have 
no hesitation in asking him to do all kinds of 
little things like this. If only he could get 
some permanent and lucrative employment, we 
should be so happy. At present he is an agent 
for a new kind of combined fountain pen and 
office ruler, which he is trying very hard to 
introduce into the City, but without much 
success, I am afraid. — Your loving S. 



Mrs. Clishy to Mrs. Tho7ns 

My dear Sophy, — I am very sorry to have to 
disappoint you, but really I don't see how Ave can 
manage Mr. Rawler on Thursday night. I am 
sure that eight will be plenty, and Frank, who is 
so impetuous, entirely without my knowledge 
has asked a Mr. Flack, an American over here on 
business, to whom he wishes to show some 
kindness, to join us. So that if Aggie comes, 
and I am so sorry to have forgotten to mention 
the dear girl when I wrote first, we shall be 
eight — four couples — Avithout Mr. Rawler. — Your 
loving M. 

174 



The Box 

VI 

Mrs. Thorns to Mrs. Clisbij 

Dear Mabel, — It does not matter about Bertie. 
We have arranged that he shall go to the Upper 
Circle and come and see us between the acts. 
Do tell me a little more about Mr. Flack. What 
is his business ? Some Americans can be very 
attractive. I suppose he has left his wife and 
family in America } — Your loving S. 



Mrs. Clisbi/ to Mrs. Thorns 

Mv DEAR Sophy, — If Mr. Rawler is coming to 
see us between the acts I think he ought to dress. 
Couldn't he get a seat in the Dress Circle .'' — Your 
loving M. 



Mrs. Tlioms to Mys. Clisbi/ 

Dear Mabel, — Of course Bertie will dress. 
Going to the theatre is no novelty for him. He 
was at school with two of Wilson Barrett's sons. 
You do not answer my question about Mr. Flack. 
I always like to know in advance something about 
the people I am going to meet. — Your loving 

S. 
175 



Life's Little Difficulties 



Mrs. Clisb)/ to Mrs. Thorns 

{^Bij hand^ 

My very dear Sophy, — A most unfortunate 
thing has happened. Chancing to be in the 
neighbourhood this morning, Frank looked in at 
the theatre just to see in the plan where our box 
was, and perhaps mention to one of the officials 
that you and the Hendersons would be asking 
for it in the evening. To his horror he found 
that it was a top box, capable of holding four 
persons at the most, two of whom could not see 
the stage except by leaning over very uncom- 
fortably. It is unpardonable of Mrs. Smythe- 
Smith not to have told me. The question now is. 
What shall we do ? After thinking it over very 
carefully, I Avonder if you would mind postponing 
your visit to the theatre for a while until there is 
a better play — the papers seem to think very 
little of the thing now on — and bringing Mr. 
Rawler to dinner on Sunday at half-past one. It 
is so very difficult for me to put off the 
Hendersons. I am so sorry to have to ask you 
to be so unselfish, but blood is thicker than 
water, isn't it ? — Your loving M. 

P.S. — Mr. Flack seems to be a man of means. 
176 



The Box 

He is connected with a new patent, and we are 
very glad to be able to do something to make his 
time in London less lonely. Frank in putting 
him off will make some other arrangement. 

X 

Mrs. Thorns to Mrs. CUsby 
{By hand) 
Dear Mabel, — What a pity you did not find 
out how many the box would hold ! I had a 
feeling, as I mentioned to Henry quite at the 
first, that you were asking too many. Of course 
we should like to come to dinner on Sunday, and 
will do so with pleasure ; but I can't help 
thinking that the best thing to do now is for you 
to telegraph to the Hendersons that you are ill 
and have given the box away, and then to take 
just Aggie and Mr. Flack. The poor girl badly 
needs a little excitement, and it would be very 
unfortunate if Frank had to be discourteous to 
this young American. — Your loving S. 

XI 

Mrs. Clishy to Mrs. Thorns 
{By hand) 
Dear Sophy, — Before your reply came I had 
written to the Hendersons putting them off, but 
M 177 



Life's Little Difficulties 

a telegram came from them almost immediately 
after to say that they would not be able to come, 
as Mrs. H. has influenza. I am so vexed that I 
wrote. B}' all means let Aggie come and meet 
Mr. Flack. Did I tell you he is quite elderly ? 
His wife came to England with him^ but has gone 
to Stratford-on-Avon and Salisbury for a few 
days. — Your loving M. 



Mrs. Thorns to Mrs. Clishij 

{By hand) 

Dear MabeLj— Aggie cannot come after all, as 
Bertie's brother is taking them to the Hippodrome. 
We will be punctual on Sunday, and very likely 
shall bring Bertie's brother with us. I am sure 
you won't mind. — Your loving S. 



178 



VIII 
The Doctor's Visit o 



Mrs. Barmg-Rayne to Dr. Tunks 

{By hand) 

My dear Doctor, — It would be a great solace 
and satisfaction to me if you would in future 
kindly change your hour of call from half-past 
eleven to half-past ten every moi-ning. — Yours 
sincerely, Editha Baring-Ravne 

Oct. 27 



Dr. Tunks to Mrs. Baring-Rai/ne 

{By hand) 

My dear Mrs. Baring-Rayne, — Your very 
reasonable request puts me, I regret to say, in a 
179 



Life's Little Difficulties 

position of some delicacy. It has long been my 
habit to call on Miss Cann at half-past ten, and 
Col. Stubbs at eleven, reaching you at 11.30. 
Both these patients have been in my care for 
some years, and I feel sure that you will see at 
once on reading this how difficult it would be for 
me suddenly to change a custom of such long 
standing. — Believe me, yours sincerely, 

WlLBRAHAM TuNKS 

Oct. 27 



Mrs. Baring-Rapie to Dr. Tunks 

{By hand) 

Dear Doctor, — I am sorry to say that I cannot 
share your view. Health, as I have often heard 
you say, is the most imjwHant thing there is, and I 
am convinced that my health would in every way 
benefit if I . could begin the day earlier. I have 
been reading a very interesting pamphlet on the 
subject of early rising, and am convinced that to 
wait for you until half-past eleven, when so much 
of the sweetest and freshest part of the day is over, 
is a great mistake. Of course when I wrote I 
assumed that you have been sincere in your 
intei'est in my health, and would immediately 
i8o 



The Doctor's Visit 

comply with so simple a request. But life is one 
long disillusionment. — Yours sadly, 

Editha Baring-Rayne 
Oct. 27 



Dr. Tanks to Miss Can?i 
{By hand) 

My dear Miss Cann, — I have been thinking 
lately a good deal about your new pains, and I 
cannot help feeling that it would be better if you 
were to rest longer in the morning before being 
disturbed. I therefore propose in future to call 
at 11.30 instead of 10.30, at any rate for a 
sufficient time to test the accuracy of this 
theory. — Believe me, yours sincerely, 

WiLBRAHAM TuNKS 

Oct. 27 

V 

Miss Cann to Dr. Wilhraham Tunks 

(Bif hand) 

My dear Doctor, — Your letter has so shaken 

me that I fear the worst. It is quite impossible 

for me, as I thought you knew, to remain in bed 

so long. I know of nothing so depressing as 

i8i 



Life's Little Difficulties 

these long, solitary morning hours. Please never 
refer again to the subject, and believe me, yours 
sincerely, Victoria Cann 

P.S. — Sometimes I think it would be better 
for all of us if I gave up the struggle altogether. 

V. C. 



Dr. Timks to Mrs. Boring-Rai/ne 
{By hand) 

My dear Mrs. Baring-Rayne, — It grieves me 
exceedingly to have to say so, but I see no 
possible way of meeting you in your request as to 
change of visiting hours. Nor can I agree with 
the author of your pamphlet that it would be 
well for you to begin the strain and worry of the 
day a minute earlier than you now do. You 
must, however, do as you think fit. As you know, 
I am the last person to wish to impose any 
tyrannical system upon my patients and friends. 
I should also say that Miss Cann, much as I 
should like to effect an interchange of hours, is 
not, I consider, in a sufficiently robust state to 
bear it. — Believe me, yours sincerely, 

Wilbraham Tunks 

Oct. 27 



The Doctor's Visit 



M>s, Barmg-Rayne to Dr. Tanks 
{By handT) 

Dear Doctor, — You of course know best, but 
from tlie number of tradesirien's carts that draw 
up at Miss Cann's door it is clear that she at any 
rate has an appetite. Whereas I, as you know, 
have eaten nothing for years. But it is evident 
that there is more in this distressing business 
than meets the eye, and I shall therefore take my 
own steps to protect my health. Do not there- 
fore call to-morrow at all. — Yours truly, 

Editha Baring-Rayne 

Oct. 27 



Mrs. Baring-Rayne to Mr. Llewellyn 
Boakes, M.R.C.S. 

{By hand) 

Mrs. Baring-Rayne presents her compliments 
to Mr. Llewellyn Boakes, and would be glad if 
he would call to see her to-morrow morning at 
half-past ten. 

Oct. 27 

183 



Life's Little Difficulties 



Mr. Boakes to Mrs. Baring-Rayne 

{By hand) 

Mr. Llewellyn Boakes will have great pleasure 
in calling upon Mrs. Baring-Rayne to-moiTow 
morning. He regrets, however, that owing to 
appointments with other patients he will be 
unable to reach Mrs. Baring-Rayne at the hour 
she names, but he will be at her house certainly 
not later than eleven-thirty. 

Oct. 27 

Extract from a letter from Mrs. Baring-Rayne to 
her Sister-in-law 

If you ask why my letter is so dismal, it is 
because I have lost my regular medical attendant. 
It is a long story, but owing to a very curious line 
of ootid act which he chose to take up, we . . . 

Nov. 2 



Mrs. Baring-Rayne to Mr. Boakes 

{By hand) 

Dear Mr. Boakes, — I have been feeling of late 
so 7mich worse — imich worse than I have told you. 



The Doctor's Visit 

for it is not I'ight to burden others with all our 
troubles — that on the advice of a Uttle pamphlet 
I have decided on a complete change of routine^ 
the leading principle of which is total avoidance 
of all vegetable food. Although I do not as a 
rule put any faith in such literature, yet I am 
convinced that the writer of the pamphlet in 
question — a member of your profession, by the 
way — tells the truth. Knowing as I do from re- 
marks that you have let fall that you are largely a 
vegetarian, I feel that under these circumstances 
to ask you to continue your visits would be not 
only wrong and tactless on my part, but painful to 
yourself. — Yours very truly, 

Editha Baring-Rayne 
Nov. 4 



Mrs. Baring-Rayne to Dr. Tunks 

{By hand) 

My dear Doctor, — I have been a very im- 
pulsive and masterful woman, but all that is over. 
My heai't to-day is like a little child's, that knows 
its true friends. Do let us forget this terrible 
week of misunderstanding and cross purposes. I 
shall expect you to-morrow morning at half-past 
185 



Life's Little Difficulties 

eleven, just as in the old days. Imaginative 
sympathy is so rare. — Youi's sincerely, 

Editha Baring-Raynk 

P.S. — How odd is this occasional reappearance 
of old forgotten characteristics ! You know how 
grey, how sad, how humble, my life is. Yet 
suddenly there breaks out this mood of imperi- 
ousness, which years ago at school earned me the 
nickname of Boey (short for Boadicea). Where 
lias it been slumbering all this time ? These are 
among the mysteries. E. B.-R. 

Nov. 4 



i86 



IX 
The Loin of Pork <: 



Mrs. ChiUingham Bull, of " The Cheviots," Little 
Wickling, to Mr. Hcnrij lugs, Butcher, of Little 
Wickling 

{By hand) 

Mrs. ChiUingham Bull finding that her 
friendly verbal message by her butler to Mr. 
Ings concerning the nuisance caused by his 
persistent killing of pigs at the time when she 
and her household are at family prayers has had 
no effect, now informs him that she intends to 
take measures to stop the obnoxious practice. 

Sept. 28 

II 

Mr. Henri/ higs to Mrs. ChiUingham Bull 

{By hand) 

Mrs. Chillingham Bull, Dear Madam, — It is 
my wish to kill pigs as quietly as possible, not 
187 



Life's Little Difficulties 

only to cause as little nuisance as I can, but also 
out of regard to my own and Mrs. Ings's feelings, 
both of us being sensitive too. The pig which 
was killed this morning at the time you name 
in your favour of even date was specially ordered 
by Sir Cloudesley Scrubbs, and could not be kept 
back owing to its being market day at Boxton 
and m.y killer having to be there. — I am, yours 
obediently, Henry Ings 

Sept. 28 



Mrs. ChilUngham Bull to Sir Cloudesley Scrubbs 

{Bij hand) 

Dear Sir Cloudeslev, — I am sorry to trouble 
you, but you must put the blame upon my desire 
to suppress a gi'owing nuisance in our otherwise 
peaceful village. Ings, the butcher, has con- 
tracted the disagreeable habit of killing his pigs 
between 8.30 and Q, the very time at which we 
have family prayers, and you cannot conceive 
how discordant and heartrending are the screams 
that reach our eai's across the lawn at that time. 
Perks remonstrated with him some time ago, and 
we thought the matter over ; but this morning 
it broke out again with renewed violence, and 
on my sending a peremptory note Ings says that 
i88 



The Loin of Pork 

the pig was killed at that hour by your mstruc- 
tions. I shall be glad to hear from you that you 
repudiate the responsibility. — Yours sincerely^ 
Adela Chillingham Bull 

Sept. 28 



Sh- Cloudeslei/ Scnibbs to Mrs. Chillingham Bull 

{By hand) 

Dear Mrs. Chillingham Bull, — It is quite true 
that I ordered the pig, as we are expecting friends 
who are partial to pork. But I specified no time 
for its demise, least of all that half-hour in which 
you perform your devotions. Ings, who is the 
most civil of men, surely must mean that he 
understood I was in a huiTy, and therefore 
killed the pig directly the post came in. — Believe 
me, dear Mrs. Chillingham Bull, yours very 
truly, Vincent Cloudesley Scrubbs 

Sept. 28 



Mrs. Chillingham Bull to Mr. Ings 

{By hand) 

Mrs. Chillingham Bull having made inquiries 
of Sir Cloudesley Scrubbs finds that Mi-. Ings was 



Life's Little Difficulties 

quite mistaken in thinking there was any need 
for the killing of the pig to occur when it clid, 
and after what has happened she intends to 
remove her custom to a Boxton butcher as a 
mark of her displeasure. 

Sept. 28 



Mr. Ingx to Mrs. Chillingham Bull 

{By hand) 

Mr. Ings presents his compliments to Mrs. 
Chillingham Bull, and begs to enclose his account 
of ,£18, 5s. Q^d., immediate payment of which 
would oblige. He also wishes to give notice 
that the next times he catches any of Mrs. 
Chillingham Bull's fowls in his garden (notice 
of same having previously been given, and a 
stoppage of the nuisance promised) he intends 
to wring its neck. 

Sept. 28 

VII 

Mrs. Chillingham Bull to Sir Cloudesley Scrubhs 

{By hand) 

Dear Sir Cloudesley, — I hasten to send you 
the enclosed offensive missive from Ings, in 
190 



The Loin of Pork 

response to one from me saying that I could 
not deal with him any more. I think that 
you will see the matter in the same light that 
I do. In such cases neighbours must stand by 
each other for mutual protection and the har- 
mony of life. — Yours sincerely, 

Adela Chillingham Bull 
Sept. 28 



VIII 

Sir Cloudesleij Scruhbs to Mrs. Chillingham Bull 
(^Bi) hcwcl) 

Dear Mrs. Chillingham Bull, — With every 
desire in the world to oblige you I do not 
see my way, as you seem to suggest, to cease 
to deal with Ings. For one thing we like the 
quality of his meat ; for another — and you must 
pardon my frankness — I cannot consider that 
he has shown anything more objectionable than 
an independent spirit. You say nothing about 
the fowls, which he seems to look upon as a 
grievance at any rate not more imaginary than 
the pig-killing. — Believe me, dear Mrs. Chilling- 
ham Bull, yours very truly, 

Vincent Cloudesley Scrubbs 

Sept. 28 

191 



Life's Little Difficulties 



Mrs. ChUUngham Bull to Sir Cloudesley Scrubbs 

{By iiand) 

Dear Sir Cloudeslev, — I am sincerely pained 
at the view which you take. I cannot see what 
can come of village life if, as I said before, we 
do not stand by each other. Ings has been most 
rude to me, and he must be brought to his senses. 
— Yours truly, Adela Chillingham Bull 

Sept. 28 



Mrs. Chillingham Bull to Mr. Blades, Butcher, 
Boxton 

Will Mr. Blades please send to Mrs. Chillingham 
Bull to-morrow morning a fore-quarter of lamb 
and a wing-rib of beef.'' 

Sept. 28 

XI 

Mr. Perks to Mr. Blades 

Dear Sir, — Mrs. Chillingham Bull, of "The 

Cheviots," Little Wickling, having decided to 

change her butcher, and having begun to send 

you orders, I thought it interesting to let you 

192 



The Loin of Pork 

know that it was by my advice that her choice 
fell on you. — Yours truly, Henry Perks 

Oct. 1 



Mrs. Chillingham Bull to Mr. Blades 

Mrs. Chillingham Bull is very dissatisfied both 
with the quality of Mr. Blades's meat and the 
excessive proportion of bone and suet, to which 
her attention has been called by her butler. 
Unless an improvement occurs she will have to 
change her butcher. 

Oct. 5 



Mrs. Chillingham Bull to Mr. Earwaker, Butcher, 
Boxton 

Will Mr. Earwaker please send to Mrs. Chilling- 
ham Bull to-morrow morning a leg of mutton and 
a sirloin of beef.'' 

Oct 10 

XIV 

Mr. Perks to Mr. Eanvaker 

Dear Sir, — Mrs. Chillingham Bull, of "The 
Cheviots," Little Wickling, having decided to 

N 193 



Life's Little Difficulties 

change her butcher, and having begun to send 
you orders, I thought it interesting to let you 
know that it was by my advice that the choice 
fell on you. — Yours truly, Henry Perks 

Oct. 12 



Mrs. Ckillitigkam Bull to Mr. Earwaker 

Mrs. Chillingham Bull is very dissatisfied both 
with the quality of Mr. Earwaker's meat and the 
excessive proportion of bone and suet, to which 
her attention has been drawn by her butler. 
Unless an improvement occurs she will have to 
chaiige her butcher. 

Oct. 15 



Mrs. Chillingham Bull to the Rev. Dr. Baylham 

Dear Rector, — I am sony you are away from 
home, because there is a little difficulty in the 
village which can be settled only by yourself. 
Mr. Pipes, though his sermons are irreproachable, 
and he is most kind, has not the needful tact. 

To make a long story short, your petted church- 
warden Ings, a few weeks ago, was very rude to 
me and I had to take away our custom. The 
Boxton butchers are, howevei', very bad, and 
194 



The Loin of Pork 

on thinking it over I am inclined to pardon Ings^ 
but I am afraid from the attitude which he took 
up that he may not accept my forgiveness in the 
spirit in which it is offered ; which would, of 
course, be very unfortunate and wholly inimical 
to the harmony of village life. I therefore write 
to ask you if you would write to him. 

Perks, who is much distressed about it all, tells 
me that we shall never have good meat from the 
other butchers, and he is continually urging me 
to return to Ings, Will you not, dear Rector, 
once more prove yourself the Little Wickling 
mediator ? — Your grateful friend, 

Adela Chillingham Bull 

P.S.—l hope you are enjoying Chamounix. 1 
was there with my dear husband in 1885. 

Oct. 17 



Dr. Basil Baylham to the Rev. Gregory Pipes 

Dear Pipes, — Ourfriend at "The Cheviots "seems 
to have done something to offend poor Ings, with 
the result that that good man has been abandoned 
in favour of the Boxton trade. Knowing both 
as we do, there can be little doubt as to where 
the fault lies. Mrs. Bull writes to me asking for 
my mediation, because, although her spirit is 
195 



Life's Little Difficulties 

willing to continue the fray, the flesh is weak, 
and recollections of Ings' excellent fillets seem to 
be crowding appetisingly upon her, as she struggles 
with the Boxton gristle. I leave the solution 
to you with perfect confidence. — Yours, 

B. B. 
Oct. 20 

XVIII 

Mr. Henry Ings to Mrs. ChilUngham Bull 

Received with thanks cheque 
for <£18, 5s. 7d. 

Oct. 22 



Henry Ings 



Stamp 



XIX 

Mrs. ChilUngham Bull to Mr. Ings * 

Understanding from her butler that Mr. Ings 
has recently killed a pig, Mrs. Chillingham Bull 
would be glad if Mr. Ings would send her a loin 
of pork. 

Oct. 22 



196 



The Shade of Blue ^ <:- ^ o 

M.rs. Vincent Olhj to Mrs. Leonard Sprake 
( With enclosure) 

Mv DEAR Vera, — Do be an angel and go oft 
at once to Ell's or Naval's and see if you can 
match the enclosed shade in velvet. I want the 
dress for Friday week, and there isn't a minute 
to lose. It is for Mrs. Ashley Carbonel's At 
Home, and you know my reasons for wishing to 
look well there. I want two yards — and blow the 
expense, as Vinny says. Don't say j'ou are busy 
or anything, or I shall have to ask Olive Shackle ; 
and Heaven knows I don't want to be beholden 
to her any more. — Your frantic M. 

Mrs. Leonard Sprake to Mrs. Vincent Oily 

Dearest Mildred, — I have been everywhere, 
and it can't be done. I went first to Ell's, then to 
Naval's, then to Silkands' and Worcester Nicoll's, 
197 



Life's Little Difficulties 

and then back to Bond Street to Bedford and 
Hanbury's. But all in vain. I saw nothing that 
would match. Tell me what to do next. Why 
must you have velvet ? I am glad you asked me 
and not the Shackle girl. After your last experi- 
ence of her "limpetude," as Len calls it, you 
should be very shy. How long was it she stayed ? 
Two months ? Some people are beyond any- 
thing. — Yours, Vera 

Mrs. Vincent OUy to Mrs. Leo?iard Sprake 

My dear Vera, — I must have velvet. There 
is no way out of it ; nothing else will do. Try 
Licence's, or one of those Kensington places, 
Irving and Queens' or Biter's. Only you must go 
at once. I would not trouble you only I cannot 
trust anyone else's eye. Yours never makes a 
mistake. When we meet remind me to tell 
you about Mrs. Glendenning and the Scripture 
Reader. It is too delicious ; but much too long 
to write. — Yours in despair, M. 

Mrs. Leonard Sprake to Mrs. Vincent Oily 

Dearest Mildred, — I have been to all and not 
one has it. The nearest thing was at Licence's, 
but they had only a pattern. The material itself 



The Shade of Blue 

is out of stock and cannot be replaced. I even 
tried the wilds of Oxford Street, but all in vain 
too. You really must give up the idea of 
matching, or try silk. The great joke here is 
that at Lady Bassett's last week Canon Coss 
found a glass eye in the spinach and cut his poor 
mouth horribly. It turns out to have been the 
new cook's. Len says there ought to be insur- 
ance against such things. If it had been the 
Canon's eye and the cook's mouth, there would 
be, he says. — Yours, Vera 

Mrs. Vincent Oily to Mrs. Leonard Sprake 

{Telegrani) 
Ti-y Daw's. 

Mrs. Leonard Sprake to Mrs. Vincent Oily 
(^Telegrani) 

Daw's no good. Do have silk. 

Mrs. Vincent Oily to Mrs. Leonard Sprake 
[Telegram^ 

Silk useless. Try Orange's. 

Mrs. Leonard Sprake to Mrs. Vincent Oily 
{With ejiclosure) 

My dear Mildred, — I tried Orange's without 
avail. I should have gone there sooner, but 
199 



Life's Little Difficulties 

knew it would be useless. I noAV return the 
pattern with many regrets. I would have still 
made one or two other efforts, but I must go 
down to Chislehurst to-morrow to see mother, and 
after that it will be too late. I still think you 
would have been wiser to try some other material 
less difficult to match than velvet. — Yours 
with regret, Vera 

Mrs. Vincent Olhj to Mrs. Leonard Sprake 

Dear Vera, — I think you are veiy selfish and in- 
considerate. Your visit to your mother cannot be so 
fearfully important, and I seem to remember other 
occasions when she had to stand over for lots of 
more attractive engagements. Still, you must, of 
course, do what you want to do. I am sending 
the pattei'n to Olive Shackle, who, in spite of her 
faults, is, at any rate, zealous and true. — Yours 
disappointedly and utterly tired out, M. 

Miss Olive Shackle to Mrs. Vincent Oily 

My sweet Mildred, — I am sending you the 
velvet by special messenger ; which is a luxury to 
which I am sure you will not mind my treating 
myself. I got it at once at Ell's, from my own 
special counter-man there. He had put it on 
200 



The Shade of Blue 

one side for another old customer, but made an 
exception for me. How I should love to see you 
in your beautiful dress throwing everyone else at 
Mrs. Ashley Cai'bonel's into the shade ! I was to 
have been with the Rutters at Church Stretton 
for the Aveek-end, but poor dear Mrs. Rutter has 
just written to say that her sister is dangerously 
ill at Woodhall Spa with something that may 
very likely develop into peritonitis, and she has 
had to put off all her guests. — Yours ever, 

Olive Shackle 



Miss Olive Shackle to Mrs. Vincent Oily 
( Telegram) 

Will come with pleasure. 



XI 



The Smithsons, the Parkinsons, and Col. 
Home-Hopkins <:> o ^p* 



Miss Daisy Hopping to a lifelo7ig school friend 
(^Extract) 

The news is that mother is going to give 
another No. 1 dinner party, the first for three 
years. We are to have waiters from London 
instead of poor old Smart, the greengrocer, who 
breathes down your back, and two special entrees, 
and the champagne that grandpapa left us instead 
of what Dick always calls the Tete Montee brand 
for local consumption. And the county people 
are asked this time — no Smithsons and Parkinsons 
and Col. Home-Hopkins, and the other regular 
old stodgers who go to all the parties within a 
radius of six miles. It is all because Uncle and 
Aunt Mordaunt are coming from India, and he 
has just got a C.S.I. 



The Smithsons, Etc, 



Messrs. Patti and Casserole to Mrs. Monigomenj 
Hopping 

Madam, — In reply to your esteemed favour 
of the 22nd we would suggest qtienelles de volaille 
aiix champignons as one entree and ris de veau a 
V Armandine as the other. The two waiters will 
come to you by the 3.5 from Euston. — We are^ 
Madam, yours faithfully, 

Patti and Casserole 



Miss Daisy Hopping to the same lifelong school 
friend. {Extract^ 

Mother is in her best temper, as all the guests 
she has asked have accepted. Lena and I are 
not to come down to dinner, because there won't 
be room, but we are to go in afterwards, and 
mother is giving us new dresses. Mine is [thirty 
lines omitted.^ So you see it's an ill wind that 
blows nobody any good. Uncle Mordaunt will 
talk about Stonehenge all the time, but they 
all say they are so charmed to be going to meet 
him. 

203 



Life's Little Difficulties 



Mrs. Leonard Halt to Mrs. Montgomerij Hopping 

Dear Mrs. Hopping, — I am so very sony to 
have to tell you that we shall not be able to 
dine with you on the 5th after all, as my husband 
is ill with a chill. You will, I know, be glad to 
hear that his temperature is now nearly noi'mal, 
after a vei*y anxious time, but the doctor forbids 
all thought of going out of doors for at least 
ten days. I am exceedingly sorry, as we were 
so looking forward to the evening at your 
pretty house and to seeing dear Sir Mordaunt 
again. — I am, yours sincerely, 

Mildred Hatt 



V 

Lady Ditrdham to the Hon. Mrs. Willie Ross 

Dear Nanny, — We reached town yesterday, 
after a delightful cruise, and now we want to see 
you and Willie more than anything, so come up 
on the 5th, Thursday, and we will go somewhere, 
and have supper, and talk it all over. If you 
have an engagement, break it. — Yours, 

Bee 



204 



The Smithsons, Etc. 



The Hon. Mrs. Willie Ross to Mrs. Montgomery 
Hopping 

Dear Mrs. Hopping, — It is very dislressing to 
me to have to decline an invitation after accept- 
ing it, but I have just discovered that we have 
an engagement for the 5th which cannot be put 
off. I am so very sorry, and I promise I will 
never be so careless again — if you ever give 
me another chance ! Believe me, dear Mrs. 

Hopping, yours very truly, 

Annette Ross 



Cation Bath to Mrs. Montgomery/ Hopping 

My dear Mrs. Hopping, — I very deeply regret 
to have to write as I must ; but we are all servants 
and at the mercy of our masters, and the Bishop 
has just signified his intention of visiting Widdes- 
don on the day of your charming party, and has 
asked me to be his host. 

To so good a churchwoman as yourself I 

need not say more, except that I am deeply 

concerned to have to break faith with you and 

to miss a congenial antiquarian gossip with 

205 



Life's Little Difficulties 

Sir Mordaunt. — Believe me, dear Mrs. Hopping, 
yours sincerely, Oliver Bath 



Mrs. Vansittart to Mrs. Muntgomeri/ Hopping 

Dear Mrs. Hopping, — I have put oiF writing 
till the last moment, hoping that the necessity 
might pass, but I am now forced to say that I 
shall not be able to dine with you on the 5th. 
Poor Arthur was brought home on Saturday, 
from mixed hockey, so badly bruised and injured 
that he has been in bed ever since and requires 
constant attention. I am sure that you (who 
also are a mother) will understand that I should 
not like to leave him in this state even for an 
evening ; and so I hasten to let you know. — Yours 
sincerely, Kate Vansittart 

P.S. — You will please tell Sir Mordaunt and 
Lady Hopping that I am deeply grieved not to 
meet them. 



Mrs. Montgomery Hopping to Messrs. Patti and 
Casserole. (JFelegrani) 

Mrs. Montgomery Hopping will not require 
either the entrees or the waiters for the 5th. 
206 



The Smithsons, Etc. 



Miss Daisy Hopping to the same lifelong school 
friend. {Extract^ 

This house isn't fit to live in. Everyone who 
was invited has backed out, except old General 
Stores, who says he put off going to the South 
of France on purpose. Mother never thought 
he would come at all. If it weren't for him, 
mother (who is more like a whirlwind than 
anything I ever experienced) says she would 
have no party at all ; but now she must go on 
with it, especially as she told Uncle Mordaunt. 
And so it means the Smithsons and the Parkin- 
sons and Col. Home-Hopkins after all. The 
worst of it is we are not to have new dresses. 



Mrs. Parkinson to Mrs. Montgomerij Hopping 

Dear Mrs. Montgomery Hopping, — It will 
give Mr. Parkinson and myself such very great 
pleasure to dine with you on the 5th to meet 
your distinguished brother-in-law. A dinner 
party at your house is always such an event, and 
in our remote neighbourhood, where excitements 
are so few, short notice perhaps adds to the 
delight. — Believe me, yours sincerely, 

Mildred Parkinson 
207 



Life's Little Difficulties 



Col. Hoine-Hopkiiis to Mrs. Montgomery Hopping 

My dear Lady, — Your word is always law, 
and you may count on me to be on your hospit- 
able doorstep at the stroke of eight. Would 
that you had said seven, that an hour of happi- 
ness were added ! I beg you not to apologise for 
what you call short notice. No notice should be 
too short to a soldier. — I am, dear Lady, yours to 
command, Edgar Home-Hopkins 



Mrs. Smithson to Mrs. Montgomery Hoppmg 

My dear Mrs. Hopping, — It would give Mr. 
Smithson and myself much pleasure to accept 
your kind invitation were it not that we are a 
little in bondage to a visitor, a niece of my 
husband's, such a very nice girl, who is staying 
with us before taking up a position at Cannes as 
a companion to a very interesting old lady, the 
widow of Commander Muncaster, who, you may 
remember, died a few weeks ago. As we do not 
quite like to leave Madeline alone all the even- 
ing, I wondered if I might bring her with me. 
She is a very nice girl, and quite the best pupil 
iit the Guildhall School of Music last year. 
208 



The Smithsons, Etc 



Perhaps you would like her to bring some music 
with her. I know it is often a help. But of 
course, dear Mrs. Hopping, you will say at once 
if it is inconvenient or likely to put your table out, 
and then we can perhaps get Miss Moberly to 
come in for the evening and bring her knitting, 
and keep Madeline company, as I should not like 
to refuse your very kind invitation. The Doctor 
was saying only the other day how long it was 
since we had the pleasure of dining with you. 
As for short notice, I hope you won't mention it. 
It is so difficult often to give long notice, as I 
know only too well. — Yours very truly, 

Martha Smithson 

P.S. — I find I have not said how glad we shall 
be to see Sir Mordaunt and Lady Hopping. 



Mrs. Mo7itgomery Hopping to Mrs. Stnart 

To Mrs. Smart, — I am glad your husband can 
come for Thursday evening. I am counting on 
him to be here at five to help with the silver, 
and I shall want some mushrooms if you can 
get them, some French beans, and two heads of 
celery. E. Montgomery Hopping 



209 



XTI 

"White Finings" < 



Miss Vesta Swan to the Thalia and Erato 
Press, Ltd. 

Dear Sirs, — I am sending you by registered 
post the MS. of a volume of poems, entitled 
White Pinings, in the hope that you will like 
them sufficiently to undertake their publication. 
The poems are entirely original, and have never 
before (with one exception) been printed. It was 
once my intention to print them from time to 
time in the better class weekly papers, but after a 
while that idea was abandoned. The exception 
is the rondeau called "Coral Toes," which 
appeared in the Baby's Friend, but there would be 
no difficulty about copyright, I am sui-e. — Yours 
truly, Vesta Swan 

2IO 



" White Finings " 



The Thalia and Erato Press to Miss Vesta Swan 

Dear Madam^ — Our Reader reports that he has 
read White Finings with much interest, and that in 
his opinion the book is in every way worthy of pub- 
lication. Poetry, however, as you perhaps are not 
unaware, is no longer read as it used to be. This 
apathy is the result, some think, of the interest 
in motors, but according to others is due to the 
fashion of Bridge. Be it as it may, no great sale 
can be expected for such a book, and our Reader 
therefore suggests that you should combine with 
us in this enterprise. Of course if the book is 
successful your outlay would come back to you 
multiplied many times. We calculate that a first 
edition of White Finings would cost £100, and we 
suggest that each of us contributes £50. 

Awaiting your reply, we are, dear Madam, 
yours faithfully, 

The Thalia and Erato Press 
j)er A. B. C. 

Ill 

Miss Vesta Swan to the Thalia and Erato Fress 

Dear Sirs, — I am glad to know that your 
Reader thinks so highly of my book. Would it 

211 



Life's Little Difficulties 

be indiscreet to ask his name ? — there are two or 
three points concerning the poems which I should 
like to put to him. 

I am aware that the ordinary run of poetry is 
not profitable, but there are shining examples of 
success. I have just been reading the Life of the 
late Lord Tennyson, who seems to have been 
quite wealthy, although he wrote comparatively 
little ; and I gather that the Brownings also were 
well-to-do. One of my friends considers my 
style not unlike a blend of both Robert and 
E. B., although (being a woman) naturally more 
like the latter. I understand also that both Mr. 
Swinburne and Mr. Alfred Austin are quite 
comfortably off. So that there are exceptions. 

I should say also that JV. P. is not, as you think, 
my first book. I published in 1896, through a 
firm at Winchester, a little collection called Heart 
Beats, a copy of which was sent to Her late 
Majesty Queen Victoria. 

None the less, as I believe in my work and 
wish others to have the opportunity of being 
cheered by it, I will pay the £50. Please put 
the book in hand at once, as I want it to come 
out with the April buds. — Yours truly, 

^^ESTA Swan 



" White Finings " 



The Thalia and Erato Press to Miss Vesta Swan 
{Extract) 

We enclose a contract form, which please sign 
and return to us with cheque. Any letter 
intended for our Reader will be at once forwarded 
to him. 



Miss Vesta Swan to the Reader of her MS. 

Dear Sir, — I should very much like to have 
your opinion of the " Lines written at midnight 
after hearing Miss Clara Butt sing ' The Lost 
Chord.' " Do you think the faulty grammar in 
line 4 of stanza 2 — " loud " the adjective, for 
" loudly " the adverb — is permissible } I have 
already spent some time in polishing this poem, 
but I have so high an opinion of your judgment 
that I am ready to begin again if you say I 
should. And do you think the title should be 
merely White Finings or that it should have 
the sub-heading — " Sighs of a Priestess of 
Modernity"? One of my friends, a young 
journalist, favours the latter very warmly. 

I might add that I have a very kind letter 
from the secretary of Sir Thomas Lipton, who 
2 1;; 



Life's Little Difficulties 

read the poems in MS.^ praising them in no 
measured terms. Do you think it would do the 
book good if we were to print this letter in fac- 
simile at the beginning ? — I am, yours truly, 

\^ESTA Swan 

[Several letters omitted^ 



Miss Vesta Siinm to the Thalia and Erato Press 
{Telegrani) 

Stop printing. Serious misprint, page 41. 
" Heave on coal " should be " Heaven our goal." 

XVII 

The Thalia and Erato Press to Miss Vesta Swan 
(JTelegrani) 

Too late. Error unimportant. 

[Several letters omitted] 

XXIII. 

Miss Vesta Swan to the Thalia and Erato Press 
{Extract) 

. . . And will you please be sure to send a 
copy with the author's compliments to Mr. 
214 



"White Finings" 

Andrew Lang, as I hear he is so much interested 
in new poets ? 

[^From a vast correspondence the Jollow'mg six letters 
have been selected^ 

XXXI 

Miss Vesta Swan to the Thalia and Erato Press 
(Extract) 

. . . My friends tell me that they have great 
difficulty in buying White Pinings. A letter this 
morning says that there is not a bookseller in 
Blackburn who has heard of it. 



Miss Vesta Swan to the Thalia and Erato Press 

Dear Sirs, — Several persons have told me 
lately that they have looked in vain in the 
literary papers, ever since White Pinings was 
published, for any advertisement of it, and they 
have found none. Many of the books of the day 
are, I notice, advertised very freely, with, I have 
no doubt, good results — Mr. Hall Caine's last 
novel, for example. Curiously enough, one of my 
poems (" An Evening Reverie," page 76), contains 
very much the same moral as his new book. 

215 



Life's Little Difficulties 

Could you not intimate that fact to the public 
in some way ? Please send me twelve more 
copies. — Yours truly, Vesta Swan 



Miss Vesta Sivan to the Thalia and Erato Press 

Dear Sirs, — In the report in the papers this 
morning of the Bishop of London's address on 
the reconcilement of the Letter and the Spirit, 
there is a most curious anticipation of a statement 
of mine in the poem, " Let us ponder awhile," 
on page 132 of White Pinings. I think that the 
enclosed paragraph mentioning the coincidence 
might be sent to the Athenceiim. I am told that 
all the other papers would then copy it. — Yours 
truly, Vesta Swan 



Miss Vesta Swan to the Thalia and Erato Press 
{Extract) 

A friend of mine got out of the train and 
asked at all the bookstalls between London 
and Manchester for W. P., and not one had it. 
Is not this a scandal } Something ought to be 
done to raise the tone of railway reading. Please 
send me six more copies. 
216 



" White Pinings " 



Miss Vesta Swan to the T/ialia and Erato Press 
(^Extract) 

I am told that a few years ago a volume of 
poems was advertised by sandwichmen in London 
streets. Could not White Pinings be made known 
in this way ? 



The Thalia and Erato Press to Miss Vesta Swan 

Dear Madam, — We have much pleasure in 
enclosing the first review of your poems that has 
reached us. Doubtless now that a start has been 
made, many more will follow. — Yours faithfully, 
The Thalia and Erato Press 
per A. B. C. 
[1 End.] 

From the Scots Reader 

One of the most amusing misprints that we can recollect 
occurs in IVhite Pinings (Thalia and Erato Press), by Vesta 
Swan, which otherwise is not noteworthy. The poetess 
undoubtedly wrote : 

"Watch the progress of the soul 
Strugghng aye to heaven our goal;" 

but the waggish printer has made her say, 

"Struggling aj-e to heave on coal." 



217 



XIII 
The Christmas Decorations 



The Rev. Laivrence Lidhetter to his curate, the Rev. 
Arthir Starling 

Dear Starling, — I am sorry to appear to be 
running away at this busy season, but a sudden 
call to London on business leaves me no alterna- 
tive. I shall be back on Christmas Eve for 
certain, perhaps before. You must keep an eye 
on the decorations, and see that none of our 
helpers get out of hand. I have serious doubts 
as to Miss Green. — Yours, L. L. 

II 

Mrs. Clihborn to the Rev. Lawreiice Lidhetter 

Dear Rector, — I think we have got over 
the difficulty which we were talking of — Mr. 
218 



The Christmas Decorations 

Lulham's red hair and the discord it would 
make with the crimson decorations. Maggie 
and Popsy and I have been woi'king Hke slaves, 
and have put up a beautiful and effectual screen 
of evergreen which completely obliterates the 
keyboard and organist. I think you will be 
delighted. Mr. Starling approves most cordi- 
ally. — Yours sincerely, Mary Clibborn 



Miss Pitt to the Rev. Lawrence Lidbetter 

My dear Mr. Lidbetter, — We are all so sorry 
you have been called away, a strong guiding hand 
being never more needed. You will remember 
that it was arranged that I should have sole 
chai'ge of the memorial window to Colonel Soper 
— we settled it just outside the Post Office on 
the morning that poor Blades was kicked by the 
Doctor's pony. Well, Miss Lockie now says that 
Colonel Soper's window belongs to her, and she 
makes it impossible for me to do anything. I 
must implore you to write to her putting it right, 
or the decorations will be ruined. Mr. Starling 
is kind, but quite useless. — Yours sincei*ely, 

Virginia Pitt 
219 



Life's Little Difficulties 

IV 

Miss Loc/iie to the Rev. Lawrence Lklhetter 

My dear Mr. Lidbetter,- — I am sorry to 
have to trouble you in your enforced rest, but the 
mterests of the church must not be neglected, 
and you ought to know that Miss Pitt not only 
insists that the decoration of Colonel Soper's 
window was entrusted to her, but prevents me 
carrying it out. If you recollect, it was during 
tea at Mrs. Millstone's that it was arranged that 
1 should be responsible for this window. A 
telegram to Miss Pitt would put the matter 
right at once. Dear Mr. Starling is always so 
nice, but he does so lack firmness. — Yours 
sincerely, Mabel Lockie 



Mrs. St. John to the Rev. Lawrence Lidbetter 

Dear Rector, — I wish you would let Miss 
Green have a line about the decoration of the 
pulpit. It is no use any of us saying anything to 
her since she went to the Slade School and 
acquired artistic notions, but a word from you 
would work wonders. What we all feel is that 
the pulpit should be bright and gay, with some 
cheerful texts on it, a suitable setting for you 
220 



The Christmas Decorations 

and your helpful Christmas sermon, but Miss 
Green's idea is to drape it entirely in black 
muslin and purple, like a lying in state. One 
can do wonders with a little cotton-wool and 
a few yards of Turkey twill, but she will not 
understand this. How with all her nouveau art 
ideas she got permission to decollate the pulpit 
at all I cannot think, but there it is, and the 
sooner she is stopped the better. Poor Mr. 
Starling drops all the hints he can, but she dis- 
regards them all. — Yours sincerely, 

Charlotte St. John 



Miss Olive Green to the Rev, Laivrence Lidbetter 

Dear Mr. Lidbetter, — I am sure you will like 
the pulpit. I am giving it the most careful 
thought, and there is every promise of a scheme 
of austere beauty, grave and solemn and yet just 
touched with a note of happier fulfilment. For 
the most part you will find the decorations quite 
conventional — holly and evergreens, the old 
terrible cotton-wool snow on crimson background. 
But I am certain that you will experience a thrill 
of satisfied surprise when your eyes alight upon 
the simple gravity of the pulpit's drapery and its 

221 



Life's Little Difficulties 

flowing sensuous lines. It is so kind of you to give 
me this opportunity to realise some of my artistic 
self. Poor Mr. Starling, who is entirely Victorian 
in his views of art, has been talking to me about 
gay colours, but my work is done for you and the 
few who can understand. — Yours sincerely, 

Olive Green 



Mrs. Millstone to the Rev. Lawrence Lidbetter 

Dear Rector, — Just a line to tell you of a 
delightful device I have hit upon for the decora- 
tions. Cotton-wool, of course, makes excellent 
snow, and rice is sometimes used, on gum, to 
suggest winter too. But I have discovered that 
the most perfect illusion of a white rime can be 
obtained by wetting the leaves and then sprinkling 
flour on them. I am going to get all the othei's 
to let me finish off everything like that on 
Christmas Eve (like varnishing-day at the 
Academy, my husband says), when it will be all 
fresh for Sunday. Mr. Starling, who is proving 
himself such a dear, is delighted with the scheme. 
I hope you are well in that dreadful foggy 
city. — Yours sincerely, Ada Millstone 



The Christmas Decorations 



Mrs. Hobhs, charwoman, to the Rev. Laivrence 
Lidbetter 

Honoured Sir, — I am writing to you because 
Hobbs and me dispare of getting any justice from 
the so called ladies who have been turning the 
holy church of St. Michael and all Angels into a 
Covent Garden market. To sweep up holly and 
other green stuff I don't mind, because I have 
heard you say year after year that we should all 
do our best at Christmas to help each other. I 
always hold that charity and kindness are more 
than rubys, but when it comes to flour I say no. 
If you would believe it, Mrs. Millstone is first 
watering the holly and the lorrel to make it wet, 
and then sprinkling flour on it to look like hore 
frost, and the mess is somethingdreadful,all over the 
cushions and carpet. To sweep up ordinery dust I 
don't mind, more particulerly as it is my paid work 
and bounden duty ; but unless it is made worth 
my while Hobbs says I must say no. We draw the 
line at sweeping up dough. Mr. Starling is very 
kind, but as Hobbs says you are the founting 
head. — Awaiting a reply, I am, your humble 
servant, Martha Hobbs 



Life's Little Difficulties 



Mrs. Vansittart to the Rev. Lawrence Lidhetter 

Dear Rector, — If I am late with the north 
windows you must understand that it is hot my 
fault, but Pedder's. He has suddenly and most 
mysteriously adopted an attitude of hostility to his 
employers (quite in the way one has heard of 
gardeners doing), and nothing will induce him to 
cut me any evergreens, which he saj-s he cannot 
spare. The result is that poor Horace and Mr. 
Starling have to go out with lanterns after Pedder 
has left the garden, and cut what they can and 
convey it to the church by stealth. I think we 
shall manage fairly well, but thought you had 
better know in case the result is not equal to your 
anticipation. — Yours sincerely, 

Grace Vansittart 



Mr. Lulharn, organist to the Rev. Lawrence Lidbefter 

Dear Sir, — I shall be glad to have a line from 
you authorising me to insist upon the removal of 
a large screen of evergreens which Mrs. Clibborn 
and her daughters have erected by the organ. 
There seems to be an idea that the organ is 
unsightly, although we have had no complaints 
224 



The Christmas Decorations 

hitherto, and the effect of this barrier will be to 
interfere very seriously with the choral part of 
the service. Mr. Starling sympathises with me, 
but has not taken any steps. — Believe me, yours 
faithfully, Walter Lulham 



The Rev. Lawrence Lidbetter to Mrs. Lklbetter 

My dearest Harriet, — I am having, as I ex- 
pected, an awful time with the decorations, and 
I send you a batch of letters and leave the 
situation to you. Miss Pitt had better keep the 
Soper window. Give the Lockie girl one of the 
autograph copies of my Narrow Path, with a 
i-eference underneath my name to the chapter on 
self-sacrifice, and tell her how sorry 1 am that 
there has been a misunderstanding. Mrs. Hobbs 
must have an extra half-a-crown, and the flouring 
must be discreetly discouraged — on the ground of 
waste of food material. Assure Lulham that there 
shall be no barrier, and then tell Mrs. Clibborn 
that the organist has been given a pledge that 
nothing should intervene between his music and 
the congregation. I am dining with the Lawsons 
to-night, and we go afterwards to the Tempest, I 
think. — Your devoted L. 

p 225 



XTV 
The Prize Competition ^^ <?- <^ 



Miss Bristowe to her iiiece, Miss Grace Bristowe 

My dear Gracie, — Your Aunt Sophie and I 
have been thinking so much of late about your 
brave resolve to earn a little money for yourself 
and be independent of your dear father, who has 
burdens enough on his purse, Heaven knows ! 
We have not heard what you have decided to do, 
but have great doubts as to the lasting lucrative- 
ness of poker-work, unless done on a very large 
scale. And bookbinding, we understand, needs 
a long and rather expensive apprenticeship. 
Sweet-pea growing, I read somewhere recently, 
can be profitable, but that needs not only know- 
ledge but land, and I doubt if your father could 
spare you that ; and I believe all the glebe is let. 
226 



The Prize Competition 

Poor man, he will soon need all the rent the glebe 
brings in if these terrible Radicals have their own 
way much longer, with their dreadful views about 
the Church. But what I wanted to tell you was 
that your aunt, when at a garden party at the 
Hall yesterday, met a very attractive girl who 
had already received three guineas in prizes from 
the Westminster Gazette, and is quite confident of 
making much more. I doubt if you ever see the 
JVestminster Gazette, which is certainly not your 
dear father's colour at all, but it is in other ways 
quite a nice paper, and really tries to be fair, 
I think, even if it fails. We see it whenever 
your uncle comes here, as he always brings it 
with him. It seems that every Saturday there is 
a prize competition, with quite good prizes, for 
literary people, and you were always so clever 
with your pen. Your aunt says that the one for 
next week is quite easy — to write a poem of four 
lines, the first two lines of which end with the 
words "editor" and "coastguard." The prize is 
a guinea. Surely you could do that. I will write 
for a Westminster Gazette and send it to you as 
soon as it comes, with all the particulars. — With 
love, I am your affectionate 

Aunt Meta 



227 



Life's Little Difficulties 



Miss Grace Bristowe to her aunt, Miss Bristowe 

Dear Aunt Meta^ — How very good of you— 
just when I was getting so desperate, too ! Of 
course I will try — in fact, I have tried already, 
but it is not as easy as you think, because there 
are so few rhymes to either of the words. Jack 
is going to try to get me a cheap copy of a 
rhyming dictionary when he goes to town to- 
morrow, and I am writing to Uncle Basil to help 
me too. Mr. Rainey-Spong is also interesting 
himself in it. As he neai'ly won the Newdigate 
and is just bringing out a volume of poetry he 
ought to be very useful. We have been having 
some ripping tennis this summer. — Much love. 
Your lovinff Gracie 



Miss Grace Bristowe to her uncle, Basil Heriot, All 
Souls' College, Oxford 

My dear Uncle Basil, — You are so very 
clever, will you help me with a piece of literary 
work that I have on hand } I am trying to write 
a poem the third line of which must rhyme to 
"editor" and the fourth line to "coastguard." 
If I do it better than anyone else 1 shall earn a 
228 



The Prize Competition 

guinea, and that is a good deal in these hard 
times, especially as I want a new driver, and a 
brassie too. Please write by retuiui of post if you 
can. — Your loving niece, Grace 



Basil Heriot to his niece, Grace Bristowe 

My dear Niece, — I fear you have applied to 
the wrong source, and even if I had any of the 
mastery of bouts rimes with which you are kind 
enough to credit me, I could not waste any 
time on such frivolity just now, since all my 
strength is needed for the completion of the tenth 
volume of my commentary, and even this letter 
to you is making sad inroads on the day's routine. 
I gather fi-om your hurried note that you are 
competing for some newspaper prize. If you 
must do such things, I wish you would make an 
effort to win one of the Westmiiisters guerdons 
offered for skill in transliterating from the 
English into Greek. That would be worth 
doing ; but possibly you, with your unfortunate 
addiction to manly pursuits, are of a different 
opinion. I wish you would try to be more like 
your aunt Frideswide, who had written an essay 
on the Chanson de Roland before she was your 
229 



Life's Little Difficulties 

age and still knows nothing of golf. If ever I 
can help you in a more serious and worthy 
difficulty, I shall be glad to make the time ; but 
before you propound your queries I hope you will 
be quite sure in your mind that it is I, and I only, 
who can answer them. — Your affectionate uncle, 

Basil Heriot 



Miss Grace Bristowe to her aunt, Miss Brision'e 

Dear Aunt Meta, — I am not having such an 
easy time as you expected, and I am beginning 
to believe in the saying that nothing good is ever 
done except by hard work. Jack could not get a 
rhj'ming dictionary second-hand, and it seemed 
absurd to spend much on a new one, and the 
stupid boy hadn't the sense just to turn to those 
two words in the shop. Uncle Basil, too, was not 
very helpful. He seems to think that light 
poetry is hardly worth writing in English at all. 
As for poor Mr. Rainey-Spong, I happened to 
mention to father that we were composing a poem 
in collaboration, and he was furious, and said he did 
not pay curates for that, and made him visit all 
kinds of old frumps as a punishment. But I think 
it will be all I'ight. — Your loving Gracie 

230 



The Prize Competition 



The Rev. At hoi Rainey-Spong to Miss Grace 
Bristoive 

Dear Miss Gracie, — I am sending you by 
Gibbings's boy the fruits of my industry. I wish 
it could have been more worthy, but I have had 
an unexpected number of small duties to perform 
during the past two days. — Yours most sincerely, 

A. R.-S. 

VII 

Miss Grace Bristowe to her aunt, Miss Bristowe 

Dear Aunt Meta, — Here it is. Will you please 
send it in for me, so as to save time ? — Your 
loving niece, Gracie 

P.S. — I have already spent half the money on 
a perfectly adorable puppy — an Aberdeen, quite 
pure. 



Miss Bristoive to her niece, Miss Grace Bristowe 

My very dear Gracie, — I have such sad news 
for you. The Westminster Gazette, which was 
delayed in the post, has only just come, and I 
find, to my great disappointment, that there were 
certain very restricting and, I think, very unfair 
231 



Life's Little Difficulties 

conditions to that competition. The rules say 
that neither "creditor" nor "postcard" maybe 
used ; and this, I fear, disqualifies your really 
very excellent poem, which therefore I return. I 
am so very sorry to have raised your hopes so 
groundlessly. — Your affectionate Aunt Meta 

P.S. — I hope you will be able to induce the 
people to take back the dear little doggie. 



The Rev. At hoi Rainey-Spo7ig to Messrs. Peter Sf Co., 
jniblishers 

Dear Sirs, — I enclose one more trifle which I 
should like printed at the end of the book, in the 
section entitled Leviore plectra. 

Impromptu 

Written at the request of a young ladij who 
stipplied the author with the terminal words of the 
Jirst two lines, and challenged him to complete the 
quatrain. 

Station is naught. This man's a brilliant editor, 
And that a simple, plain, unlettered coastguard ; 

Yet this one's life's made sad by many a creditor, 
While that will beam at but a picture postcard. 

Believe me, yours faithfully, 

Athol Rainey-Spong 
232 



XV 
The Cricket Club Concert o <?^ <^ 



The Rev. Ctcsar Dear- to Lady Bird 

Dear Lady Bird, — It will give so much 
pleasure in the village if you could see your 
way to carry out a promise which you very kindly 
made in the summer, and be the moving spirit in 
the concert which is to be held on the 19th for 
the Cricket Club. With the many well-known 
artistes whom you expressed yourself able to 
induce to perform, the concert cannot but be an 
unqualified success, and the new roller assured 
to us. 

I might say that the names of Miss EUaline 
Terriss and Miss Gertie Millar, whom you felt 
confident of getting, when placed before the 
Cricket Club Committee elicited the warmest 
enthusiasm. So also did that of Mr. Lewis 
Waller. — Believe me, dear Lady Bird, yours 
sincerely, Cesar Dear 

233 



Life's Little Difficulties 



Lady Bird to the Rev. Ccesar Dear 

Dear Rector, — I am sorry that engagements 
keep me in town, as I should have liked to have 
talked this concert over with you. I will certainly 
manage it ; but I have a feeling — mere instinct, 
perhaps, rather than reason, but I always trust 
my instinct implicitly, and have never known it 
fail me : indeed, all my troubles have come from 
want of faith in it — that to get London performere 
would be a mistake. After all, this is a village 
concert, and the rustics will feel much more at 
home if the perfoi-mers are their own people. 
Will you therefore send me a few names of singers 
in the neighbourhood to whom I can write ? You 
vnll be glad to hear that I have pi-evailed on Sir 
Julian to tell some stories of Big Game shooting 
in Nigeria, and my cousin Captain Ide has pro- 
mised to imitate Mr. Beerbohm Tree. My own 
contribution will be a share in a little French 
duologue. — Yours sincerely, Millie Bird 



Lady Bird to Mr. Hall-Hall 

Lady Bird having undertaken, at the request 
of Dr. Dear, to get up the concert on the 17th, 
234 



The Cricket Club Concert 

she would be enchanted to learn that Mr. Hall- 
Hall would be willing to give one of his delightful 
recitations. Mr. Hall-Hall will be glad to hear 
that Sir Julian has promised to deliver a short 
address on his experiences with Big Game in 
Nigeria. 



Mr. Hall-Hall to Lady Bird 

Mr. Hall-Hall presents his compliments to 
Lady Bird and will be very glad to assist in the 
concert on the 1 7th. He does not, however, 
recite, as Lady Bird seems to think, but sings bass. 



Lady Bird to Miss Effie Plumber 

Lady Bird presents her compliments to Miss 
EfRe Plumber, and would be very glad if she 
would sing at the Cricket Club Concert on the 
1 7th. Lady Bird recently heard a very attractive 
song called " Hyacinth," which she would recom- 
mend to Miss Plumber's notice. Lady Bird 
herself intends to take part in a short French 
duologue, and Sir Julian will give the audience 
the benefit of his Big Game experiences in 
Nigeria. 

235 



Life's Little Difficulties 



Miss Effie Phimher to Lady Bird 

Miss Effie Plumber presents her compliments 
to Lady Bird, and begs to say that she will be 
pleased to sing at the Cricket Club Concert on 
the 17th. Miss Effie Plumber thanks Lady Bird 
for her suggestion, but she is in the habit of 
singing "The Holy City" and "Jerusalem" on 
these occasions, with, for an encore, "Daddy," 
and she cannot see any reason for departing from 
custom. 



The Rev. Ccesar Dear to Lady Bird 

Dear Lady Bird, — Chancing to meet Miss 
Plumber this morning, I find that she is under 
the impression that she is to sing for us on the 
I7th. I hasten to correct this misapprehen- 
sion, if it is also yours, because the date is the 
19th. — I am, dear Lady Bird, yours sincerely, 

CjEsar Dear 



Lady Bird to the Rev. Ccesar Dear 

Dear Rector, — Owing to the very unfortunate 
way in which you made the figure 9 in your first 
236 



The Cricket Club Concert 

letter about the concert, I took it for a 1 , and 
have asked everyone for the 17th. Will you 
therefore change the date to that night ? — Yours 
sincerely, Millie Bird 



The Rev. Ccesar Dear to Lady Bird 

My dear Lady Bird, — I regret exceedingly 
the ambiguity in the numeral. My writing is 
usually considered so clear. I regret also that 
the alteration of the date to the 17th is impossible, 
for several reasons. I have no doubt, however, 
that you will be able to get most of those who 
are helping us to come on the 19th, and to find 
among your great circle of friends and acquaint- 
ance others to take the place of the one or two 
that cannot. I should like to have a complete 
list of names as soon as possible. — Believe me, 
dear Lady Bird, yours sincerely, 

CiESAR Dear 

X 

Lady Bird to Mr. Hall-Hall 

Lady Bird presents her compliments to Mr. 
Hall-Hall, and regrets to say that, owing to a 
mistake of the Rector's, the date of the concert 
was given in her letter as the 17th instead of 
the 1.9th. She trusts that the change of evening 
237 



Life's Little Difficulties 

will make no difFerence to Mr. Hall-Hall, and 
that he will still favour the company with one of 
his charming recitations. Did Lady Bird say in 
her previous letter that Sir Julian was intending 
to relate some of his experiences with Big 
Game .'' 



Lady Bird to the Rev. Ccesar Dear 

Dear Rector, — I am very sorry that you will 
not alter the date. This luckless piece of 
illegible writing of yours may ruin the whole 
evening. As my uncle the Archbishop used to 
say, " Great events often have the smallest 
beginnings." But now that the date is the 19th 
for certain, it must not be changed, and we must 
do what we can. Perhaps the most unfortunate 
thing is that, on a little capricious impulse, I 
decided after all that a slight leaven of the real 
thing might be good, and asked Mr. Hayden 
Coffin and Miss Isabel Jay for the 17th, and 
both promised, saying that that night was the 
only one that was free to them for months and 
months. This is truly the irony of fate. At 
present all I can count on is Sir Julian's Big 
Game stories, which promise to be vei*y in- 
teresting, especially as he is taking lessons 
in elocution ; Captain Ide's imitations of Mr. 
238 



The Cricket Club Concert 

Beerbohm Tree ; my own share in a little French 
duologue ; and a few local efforts, including one 
of your friend Mr. Hall-Hall's recitations (not 
" Ostler Joe," I hope !). — Yours sincerely, 

Millie Bird 

XII 

Telegram from the Rev. Cccsar Dear to Lady Bird 

Am altering date to I7th to secure Coffin 
and Jay. Dear 

XIII 

Telegram from Ladij Bird to the Rev. Ccesar Dear 

Do not alter date. Have just heai'd both Coffin 
and Jay uncertain. No reliance on artistic tem- 
perament. Bird 

XIV 

Mr. Hall-Hall to Lady Bird 

Mr. Hall-Hall presents his compliments to 
Lady Bird, and regrets that he will be unable to 
assist in the concert on the 1 f)th by reason of an 
old engagement. Mr. Hall-Hall begs again to 
assure Lady Bird that he does not recite, but 
sings bass. 

XV 

Lady Bird to the Rev. Ca'sar Dear 

Mv DEAR Rfctor, — I am exceedingly sorry, 
but the responsibility of this concert has worn 
239 



Life's Little Difficulties 

me to such an extent that Sir JuHan insists on 
our leaving at once for the Riviera. Ever since 
the discovery of that unfortunate slip of yours in 
the date, I have felt the strain. I am one of those 
who cannot take things lightly. I am either all 
fire or quite cold. I have been all fire for your 
concert and its dear charitable object, and the 
result is that I am worn out, consumed. Wreck 
though that I am, I would persevere with it to 
the end if Sir Julian Avould allow it ; but he is a 
rock. I therefore enclose all the correspondence 
on the subject, which will show you how the case 
stands and make it very easy for you to com- 
plete the arrangements. All the hard work is 
done. — Believe me, with all good wishes, yours 
sincerely, Millie Bird 

P.S. — Sir Julian is having his Big Game 
reminiscences type-written for you to read to 
the audience. They are most thrilling. I have 
instructed Grant to send down the lion-skin 
hearthrug for the evening. It should be hung 
over a chair so that the two bullet-holes show. 
There might be a lighted candle behind it with 
advantage. 



Printed by Morrison & Gibb Limited, Edinburgh 



^'75 89 



'if^ 







^^^i^*^ 













■q. > » 



■^ 

r f!,**-' 



















'^0^ 



O- * 



Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. 
Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide 
Treatment Date: June 2009 



<^*. *»«o' aO 



^" PreservationTechnologies ^ 



^♦^/fW*^ V 'i''"' ♦• ' A WORLD LEADER IN COLLECTIONS PRESERVATION ». 

* '^SfflUSi • '^r» ^ *■ fd 111 Thomson Park Drive j* 

o ,-^^H||^5i!. r . f\ t. '' <o cVv Cranberry Township, PA 16066 ^ ' 






CL>^ 

















4^ "^ 










■•^^. "^0,.,.** ,mM 



HECKMAN I 

BINDERY INC. |«| 

.0^ JAN 89 




